


Desolation

by MooseFeels



Series: Kicked You Around Some [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Freed Slave, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Past Abuse, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, Slave Dean, Slavery, a little more than implied and non-romantic, almost sastiel, more like cas briefly considers shacking up with him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:19:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 25,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slavery is legal, but contentious. Clinics across America work to free slaves, either by shuttling refugees across the border into Canada or by buying them at auction and freeing them.<br/>The Chicago Roadhouse is such a clinic, and Castiel Novak is an accountant for them.<br/>He comes home one day with more than his meager paycheck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He’s skinny. He’s terrifyingly, frighteningly skinny. All bones and knots and twisted muscles and sores and scars. His legs bend outward terrifyingly- an indication of a much taller man forced into a height that isn’t natural for his frame.

 

Castiel turns away from where Michael stands in the bathroom and he swallows and he wonders why he let Jess talk him into this.

“Look,” she said, “the shelter is full, you’ve got a nice enough house in a good neighborhood. He’ll be safe. Hell, he’ll be safer with you than he will here. At least you don’t get protestors.”

So Castiel came home with the shivering, flinchy man in his front seat.

Newly freed.

Castiel covers his mouth and turns back around. “Okay,” he says, “so you know how the shower works, right? Red is hot, blue is cold, pull the knob to turn it from bath to shower. You can take a bath if you’d like, too, just…um, wash first. I uh…” he looks away, and he looks back at Michael. “I believe you have lice, and you probably do not want to soak in those.” He places a towel on the sink. “I’ll lay out some clean clothes on your bed, once you’re done. Take your time.”

Michael frowns at him, and then nods deliberately. Mutely.

He hasn’t spoken at all.

“I’ll be in the kitchen, if you need me,” he says. “You’ll probably want something to eat.”

Michael’s eyes get a little round, and he nods once more.

Castiel walks to the kitchen and he stands at the stove for a long time, until he hears the shower turn on. He’s sighs, almost relieved, and pulls out a pan to start cooking.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing, bringing this man home. A former slave, freed by the charity that Castiel did the accounting for. He didn’t even know what to expect. He’s just glad the guy can operate a shower- that he knows about the world beyond picking cotton or working at looms or making steel.

He still seems catatonic.

Dazed.

Castiel only knows his name because of the papers. “Michael” written at the top of them in large letters, along with a picture of him. Tan face, freckles. Blonde-brown hair, green eyes.

Angry, defiant.

Now he just seems wounded and broken and scared.

Castiel’s almost finished the sauce for the roast that’s been going all afternoon when the shower shuts off and Michael comes out of his room.

He is both swamped and comically big in Castiel’s old sweatpants and shirt. Michael’s shoulders are more broad than Castiel’s, and he slightly taller, too. They hang off of him hollowly, though. Strangely.

“Oh good, just in time,” he says. He motions to a chair. “Please, sit. Dinner is almost through. I hope you eat pork, but as far as I know, MIchael isn’t a name usually used by people who object-”

“Dean,” he says, suddenly.

Castiel freezes. Damn the sauce.

“What?” he answers, softly.

“My name is Dean,” he repeats.

His hands are clenched. His head is down. He looks deferential and terrified.

“Dean,” Castiel says. “Dean. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Castiel.” He extends his hand outward.

Dean looks at his hand like a frightened animal for a long moment, and then he takes it gingerly.

 

Castiel feels something inside of him break open, and he feels a million bright and strange things fall out.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean’s wet hair sticks to his scalp as he sits down at the kitchen table. He looks small and worn. Castiel places a plate in front of him, full of warm food.

Dean looks at it for several minutes before Castiel says, “Oh! Please, eat. I’m not particularly hungry. I had a late lunch.”

Dean picks up the fork carefully and scarfs down his food. He inhales it, practically. Castiel worries that he’s going to have to warn him about choking.

He puts the fork down, and then he looks at the table. Deferential.

“Would you like more?” Castiel asks.

Dean looks up at Castiel and frowns. His stomach rumbles suddenly, answering the question.

Castiel reloads his plate- two slices of pork roast, some mashed potatoes, port and cranberry sauce over both.

Dean eats again, just as fast.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks. “I don’t want you to get yourself sick.”

Dean shakes his head.

“Um,” Castiel says. “I know that it’s early, but you must be...exhausted. If you’d like to, you can lie down or watch some television or I have some books, if you’d like to read.”

“I can’t,” Dean says.

“You can’t...” Castiel starts, and then he puts it together. He can’t read.

Dean retains eye contact with the table.

“Well,” Castiel sighs, “this is a real clusterfuck on my part.”

Dean laughs. It’s hardly a puff of a laugh, more of a skipped breath than anything,  but it’s there, and it makes Castiel feel a little more at ease.

“I’m going to go and watch something,” he adds. “You can join me, if you like. If you need anything, please ask.” He walks into the living room and turns on the television, not really watching it.

Dean comes into the room after a few minutes and says, “I think I’d like to sit alone.”

Casitel nods. “You know where your room is,” he says. “Or if you’d like, there’s a garden out back, with a bench. Get some fresh air.”

Dean nods and he walks stiffly to his bedroom.

Castiel sits in the living room for a long time, not watching the television but listening to the sounds of the house and Dean in the house.

He eventually shuts off the lights and walks to his own bedroom.

He lays in his bed unsleeping all night long.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel climbs out of bed the next morning, and he walks by Dean’s room in his pajamas.

Dean sits on the bed, silent. Alert.

Castiel knocks on the open door, and Dean looks up at him. He still looks tired, he still looks scared. More than anything, he looks like he’s waiting.

“Good morning,” Castiel greets, yawning. “Are you hungry? I was thinking maybe oatmeal for breakfast.”

Dean’s stomach growls suddenly, and he blushes. “Yes, please,” he answers. His voice is low and quiet.

Castiel nods and heads off to the kitchen.

Dean walks in a few minutes later, and they are more or less silent as Castiel cooks. He boils the water and adds the oats. Slices a few strawberries, finds the maple syrup. The scent in the kitchen becomes warm and sweet. Castiel scoops the porridge into bowls and adds the butter and syrup and fruit. He puts a bowl in front of Dean and hands him a spoon.

“Slowly,” he reminds, but it’s to no avail. Dean wolfs it down. Castiel takes a few bites before he says, “So what do you want to do today? I thought maybe we could get you some new clothes.”

Dean lays the spoon down solemnly next to his bowl. “I want to read,” he says blankly.

Castiel pauses. “Of course,” he answers. “Yes. Would you like a tutor? Would you feel comfortable.”

Dean blushes again and he picks up his spoon.

Castiel looks at his half-eaten oatmeal, stirs it a little. “We’ll go to the store in a little bit, okay? I’ll get some paper and stuff too to help with...with your learning. Do you think you could be ready to go in about forty five minutes?”

Dean is finished with his oatmeal. He looks down at the table, almost guiltily. He nods, almost imperceptibly.

Castiel finishes his oatmeal. Dean walks back to his bedroom.

They leave in forty five minutes.

Dean sits shaking in the front seat of the car. He looks a little overwhelmed and awestruck by his surroundings. Chicago is a big city, but he can’t imagine the kind of overload Dean must be going through.

He was bought out of some small auction house in the middle of Kansas. Dean’s probably never seen buildings that are taller than about ten stories. He’s probably never seen so many people all in one place. He looks round-eyed out of the windows, silent.

He also looks at the car in vague wonderment.

He probably hasn’t done much riding in cars either.

They pull in front of the store and Castiel looks over at Dean, who has paled a little. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Dean nods, but his hands are tight over his pants leg.

Castiel leans over and tries to grab eye-contact with Dean. “Hey,” he says softly, “hey, take a deep breath. Okay? Deep breath. In and out.”

Dean closes his eyes and inhales shakily. He repeats a few times until he has a little more of his color. He nods again. His jaw is tense.

“If you need to step away,” Castiel says, “let me know, alright? We’ll find somewhere quiet.”

They leave the car and head into the store.

Dean shows an immediate preference for sturdy clothes in soft cotton blends. Neutral and primary colors. Raglan sleeves. Layers. Castiel buys a few pair of sturdy pants and a pair of black dress pants. A button down shirt and tie, a bunch of t-shirts in varying sleeve lengths, several plaid flannel shirts. Underwear and socks, too.

They’re there about forty five minutes before Dean starts holding himself stiffly and limping slightly.

Castiel turns to him and says, “Dean, are you okay?”

Dean nods stiffly but he’s white as a sheet.

Castiel quickly pays for the clothes and then they head back out to the car.

Dean’s panting when they get there, and Castiel dumps the bags in the backseat. He sits down next to him in the driver’s seat, and he asks, “Dean, what happened?”

“My- my feet,” Dean murmurs. “It’s nothing. Please, don’t.”

“Dean, what about your feet?” Castiel asks. “Please, let me help you.”

Dean frowns and shakes his head and says, “Before the auction, they like to break a couple of bones, so that no one runs- runs away.”

Castiel feels his heartbeat speed up suddenly. “Dean, can I see your feet?” he asks.

“It’s nothing I ain’t done before,” he answers. It’s the first time his growly voice is above a whisper. “I’ll be okay.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “I need to make sure you don’t need medical attention, okay? You might be hurt, seriously.”

Dean bites his lip and kicks off his shoes gently.

Castiel has to resist the urge to cry out.

Dean’s feet are a _mess_. They are riddled with spidery scars and scabs and blisters. Some of them are open and bleeding, some of them weep plasma. There are heavy dark bruises along the tops. They are swollen and misshapen.

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Oh, Dean. Dean- Dean, you have to- you have to-” Castiel pauses and he turns back. “I’m going to head back to the shelter. Jess might know some doctors in the area who can helps us out.”

Dean looks down at the leather of the dashboard and doesn’t say anything.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean practically flinches away from the noise of the protesters near the clinic.   
“Don’t worry,” Castiel says, turning right, “we don’t actually have to go through them. They still haven’t put together that no one actually uses the front door.”

The Chicago Roadhouse is in a well sized complex. There’s a front parking lot with a gate enclosing it and protesters enclosing the gate. There are a couple of warm buildings- an office and receiving area, a medical center. It’s not as big as the centers in New York or Seattle or Detroit- closer to the free Canadian border- but it’s respectable.

They park in a garage about two blocks away from the center and they leave the car two levels below ground. Castiel is sure to park close to the elevator, but he still has to help Dean hobble out of the car, letting his weight rest over his shoulders. Dean’s breath hisses sharply with pain. They hobble over to the elevator and Castiel rattles a key out of his pocket. He inserts it into the console and twists it. Hits the button labeled ‘3.’

The elevator goes down another three levels, and when it stops there’s a long corridor.

They step out of the elevator and Castiel pulls out his phone. “I’ll have someone meet us with a golf cart,” he murmurs. “You should sit. You’ll make your feet worse.”

Dean slumps slowly to the floor and Castiel calls the office. They say they’ll send an intern in a few minutes, which means he and Dean will be here a while.

Castiel sits down across from Dean. He sighs. “Look,” he says, “I need full disclosure from you. I’m here to help you. I want,” Castiel pauses, looking for the words. “I want what you want. I want you to be independent and employed and literate and happy. But I can’t help you get there unless I know what’s going on with you. And I get that you don’t want to do that and that you probably aren’t comfortable with being vulnerable in any way, but can we start with you telling me things like ‘help I have been maimed by others and would appreciate some medical attention?’”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then he says, “I’m pretty sure my shoulder is dislocated, and I’ve still got marks from the whip on my back and legs.”

Castiel feels both angry and relieved. Dean’s been hiding things, and he’s probably hiding more, but he’s at least gotten this far.

The golf cart arrives a few minutes later, and they drive off to get Dean taken care of.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel stays in the room with Dean the whole time. Every time the doctor asks Dean to move or change clothes or do anything, Castiel asks him if he wants privacy or wants Castiel to go or the doctor to step out. Dean shakes his head every time.

The doctor is good. He speaks in a low voice, but gruff. He’s authoritative but he’s clear that Dean is the one with agency here. He does a better job than Castiel would have hoped.

“Okay,” the doctor says after the examination, “it looks like you have a broken foot and the other one is seriously injured. Your shoulder isn’t dislocated, but it has seen some serious damage. If it’s still giving you grief in a few days, I want you back in here. As for the foot, we’re going to need to put you under and set it to get it fixed up right. You’ll be in a cast for several weeks, but it’s necessary to fix what’s happened here.”

Dean pales. Nods weakly.

“May we have a few minutes on our own?” Castiel asks.

The doctor nods and steps out.

Dean slips off the bed to stand, to leave, but he yelps and hops back up. He’s panicking now, pale as a sheet and sweating.

“Dean,” Castiel says, “Dean, what’s happened? What’s going on?”

Dean shakes his head. “Can’t. Ain’t gonna. Don’t make me, no. Don’t- don’t make me. They- they’ll- I’ll wake up and I’ll be back. I can’t go back. Don’t send me back to the fields, please God, don’t.”

Castiel begins to realize that wherever Dean is right now, it’s not here. It’s not in the Doctor’s office, and it’s damn sure not right now.

Castiel lays his hands on either side of Dean’s neck, directing his gaze into his own eyes. “Dean,” he says, “Dean, I need you breathe, okay? Like we did in the car? Can you remember that? Remember, deep breath in, deep breath out. In, out.”

Dean’s eyes are wild. They swim in his head the way a horse’s do before it starts bucking. He shakes his head in short, aborted movements, restricted by the injury to his shoulder.

“No,” he says, “no. That’s what they do- no doctors.” He meets Castiel’s eyes and he shakily, “If I go to sleep here, I won’t wake up. They’ll take me back or they’ll kill me.”

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, “Dean, you have to trust me, okay? I know you’re scared but no one here wants to hurt you. No one’s going to send you back to Kansas, and no one’s going to kill you. Deep breath, come on. No one’s going to kill you. You’re safe. Please believe me, you’re safe.”

Dean’s eyes go a little fuzzy, and then he passes out.

 


	6. Chapter 6

They tell him it was shock- that Dean’s panic attack paired with the serious pain he was experiencing was too much. They wheel him off to another room and promise to page Castiel once his foot is wrapped.

Castiel nods grimly, and then he makes the walk across the campus to Jess’s office.

There are skywalks and tunnels all over the campus- he could go all the way across it without actually going outside, once. He ventures outside of the doors today though, the birdsong and rumble of the city drowned out by the constant vigil of the protestors.

What they do is actually in a legal grey area. With enough money, Roadhouse could probably buy new slaves out of circulation and kill the whole industry within years, but there’s this law- Allistair’s Law- that prevents them from directly sheltering more than a hundred people at a time. It means that they put out tons of aid to other shelters and former slaves, but it also means that they can’t buy the freedom of more than about seventy people at any given time. It means that there’s always a push for independence, for self-sufficiency, for housing on their own terms.

There are always pro-slavery activists at their gates, watching. Shouting. Counting.

Castiel walks into the building that has Jess’s office.

She’s sitting at her desk, discussing something with a short man next to her when Castiel storms in and says, “I need more than a file, Jess.”

Jess looks up at him. The short man slips behind Castiel and shuts the door.

“For Dean,” Castiel continues. “I need more than a damn file on him. I have no idea what to do half the time- he’s silent and panicking and he’s going to eat himself until he’s sick. Jess, how do I get someone independent who can’t read? He’s illiterate, Jess! What do I do?”

Jess looks at him for a moment and says, “Dean.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Michael,” he clarifies. “His real name is Dean. He doesn’t know his last name, or at least he hasn’t told it to me.” He slumps down into a chair. “I thought I had to go through training or something. Seminars. Paperwork.”

“Well,” Jess said, “we would. If you were officially fostering him.”

Castiel sits up. “So what am I doing? Officially.”

“Well,” Jess continues, not making eye contact, “officially your his owner.”

Castiel shakes, he’s resisting the urge to be violent so hard. He can’t punch anyone, he can’t start a physical fight even though everything in his blood is singing to lash out. Instead he buries his eyes in his hand and says, “I’m what?”

“His owner,” Jess clarifies.

Castiel shoots up from the chair and he rests his forehead against a wall.

“Look,” she says, “it’s the only way we could free him. It was the only way we could buy him out of the fields, Cas. We’re over limit- we’re almost double limit. I’ve got paperwork for seven and Bobby, Dean’s doctor? There are a dozen guys at his place out in the suburbs. It’s a technicality, okay? You’re not going to do anything and I’m not going to do anything and Bobby’s not going to do anything.”

Castiel turns around and looks up at the ceiling. “Jess, you’ve made me complicit in a system,” he grits out. “Even if I’m not benefitting, I’m- god, Jess, I’m everything he’s scared of right now.”

“He had a panic attack because they tell us in the fields to keep working and not complain. Slaves that go to the doctor? They don’t come back. Usually, they’re replaced. The doctor’s where the old and the sick go, and old sick slaves don’t come back. Maybe they’re sold. Maybe they’re killed. But all you know is that the certainty of the whip is a hell of a lot better than the uncertainty of the van.”

It the short guy. Jess’s assistant. Blonde hair. Serious voice.

“You need to lay out terms,” he continues. “When you’re a slave, it’s all pretty damn clear. Wake up, work, eat. Wake up, work eat. Don’t fuck with anyone, sure as shit don’t say ‘no.’ Obey, stick to the schedule, you’re good. He doesn’t have a schedule and he doesn’t know where he stands with you. It’s open ended and uncertain. It’s dangerous. Make a schedule. Stick to it. Outline your relationship to him and what you’re doing. What you’re supposed to do, and what he’s supposed to do.” The guy smiles slightly, turns back to Jess. “You’re right- someone we’d pulled from sex work would have been too much for him.”

Castiel looks at the guy, and he notices him for the first time. He notices a whisper thin scar at his temple and a kind of fire inside of him. That same defiant thing that was in Dean’s picture.

“I can’t do this,” he sighs.

“You can,” the guy says, “because you must.”

* * *

He’s there at the bedside when Dean’s eyes blink awake.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Dean blinks himself awake and he can't breathe. 

He feels dizzy and too tired, which means he's either sick or medicated. Both are bad, both are world-endingly bad, because both put him out of the fields, and if he's not on the fields he's-

He turns over and he sees the angel and he remembers. 

 

The angel has a name he can't quite remember, but he has eyes that are blue like a creek in the cold winter. He has dark hair that's messy but clean. Everything about him is clean. His house. His car. His smell. 

 

Dean wishes he could speak to the angel, but he just can't.

 

"Hello, Dean," the angel greets with his deep voice. "How do you feel?"

 

Dean tries to calm down enough to answer.  He manages to say, "Tired."

 

The angel nods a couple of times. There are dark circles under his blue eyes. He looks as tired as Dean feels. "You and me both," he murmurs. He runs his hands through his hair and says, "There's some stuff we need to talk about when you're more lucid. You should rest, though. Apparently your feet weren't just broken- you have a pretty scary infection." He leans forward, his forehead resting on Dean's bed. 

 

Dean feels just strong enough to reach over and pet Castiel's head, his clumsy fingers twisting into his hair.

 

Ccadtiel looks up at him suddenly. He looks like he's surprised. He also looks guilty. Horribly guilty. Like the whole world has fallen upon him 

 

"Please sleep," he says. "Please."

 

Dean falls back under.

 

When he wakes back up, the guy is asleep in the chair next to the bed. Mouth open, drool running down his chin. 

 

He stirs as Dean sits up in the bed next to him, and then he starts awake. He looks around the room and sees Dean. Smiles slightly. Embarrassed. 

 

"Hey," Dean greets, his voice sleep rough and still slightly drugged. 

 

The guy pops his neck. "You seem a little better," he says. "You were high as a kite a few hours ago."

 

"I don't know about that," Dean murmurs. "I mean, I'm just drugged. I don't know nothing about no kites."

 

The guy shakes his head. "It's an idiom. Don't...don't worry about it." He stands up and walks to the desk nearby. He pours a tall glass of water and hands it to Dean. 

 

His hands shake as he takes it. He drinks so fast he feels nauseous, like he did when he worked in the soy fields. 

 

The guy sits back down and says softly, "So I need to be clear with you, and I hope you'll be clear with me."

 

Dean almost breaks the glass as he place it back on the table. 

 

"I'm...um, so my goal, ultimately, is for you to be independent," the guy says. "You need to have a house and a job and a life, of your own. And I want to do whatever it takes to get you there." He rubs the back of his neck. "And in the interim, and I swear to god I didn't know until now, but in the interim, I'm...I...own you." He looks pale. 

 

"Well, yes sir," Dean murmurs. "I know."

 

He looks pained. He shakes his head. "Dean," he says, "I don't...I didn't want to own you. You're not property, you're human. And as soon as you can pass the emancipation exams, you'll never be owned again. But I don't want to use you. I swear to god, I don't want to use you and I never will."

 

Dean feels himself begin to panic. "But I'm still useful, I promise. I can still work- I can run the fertilizer and the sifter and I can shuck. I can go back today, I can go now-"

 

"No," he interrupts, the new owner interrupts, "no, Dean, please. Listen. You'll never go back to the fields. This is- Dean, do you remember what I asked you this morning? About what you wanted to do? I mean that. This is your life. And I might be a formality right now, but it's yours to control."

 

Dean still doesn't really get it. Of course he's owned. What else would he be? 

 

His owner- his master- he wants Dean to do something else, though. 

 

So he nods and he says, "I...don't know your name."

 

The guy sets his mouth in an flat line. His brows furrow. He looks so sad. 

 

"I'm Castiel," he says. 

 

And Dean's angel suddenly has a name. 


	8. Chapter 8

They drive back to his apartment, and Castiel wheels Dean from the car to the front door. He can't put weight on his foot for six weeks, so he's relegated to bed rest. 

 

It's a relief for Castiel, actually. It means Dean has to be still and relax. 

 

"Okay," Castiel says, "the doctor has you on an antibiotic for the infection and before you take that every day, you should eat. Do you know if you have any allergies? Is there anything you don't like?"

 

Dean frowns slightly. "No," he says. "I mean, I don't like porridge that much, but I'll eat just about anything." He blushes a little, boyish. "Beggars can't really be choosers."

 

It makes Castiel ache to hear. "I was thinking carbonara," he says. 

 

Dean's brow furrows. "I ain't heard of that," he says.

 

"Haven't," Castiel corrects. "It's Italian. You'll like it. Everyone does."

 

Dean nods seriously. "Can I help?" he asks. 

 

"If you'd like," Castiel says. 

 

Dean winds up shelling peas at the kitchen table. He works methodically- a machine. 

 

Castiel grates Parmesan as water boils. "Do you know the alphabet?" he asks. 

 

Dean pauses a moment. "I know they're the parts of words. And I know them in order but I don't think I could write them. I mean, I can make my Ecks."

 

Castiel nods and whisks a couple of egg yolks in with the cheese. Some basil, a little wine. "Do you know the sounds they make?"

 

Dean shakes his head. "Not to look at them," he answers. 

 

Castiel takes the peas from Dean. "Thank you," he says. He dumps the peas into the water and sets a timer. He prepares an ice bath. "Your name," he says, "is spelled D-E-A-N. " He grabs a sheet of paper from a pad on the fridge and writes it out in his block letters. 

 

Dean looks at it and frowns. He traces over it with his fingers before he picks up the pen and writes it himself. Crooked and messy and brilliant. 

 

Castiel smiles hugely. "Yes," he says, "yes, just like that. Can you name the letters?"

 

Dean shakes his head, embarrassed. 

 

Castiel nods. "That's okay," he says. "I'll find you some books."

 

Dean nods again, and he watches Castiel. He watches as he plunges the peas into an ice bath. As he boils pasta and stirs in chopped bacon. He sniffs the air hungrily as the hit pasta hits the makings of the sauce. 

 

It comes together easily, and Castiel plates it and hands it to Dean. Dean looks at it amazed. 

 

"It's beautiful," he says. 

 

It is, in its way. Jade green peas, the deep red of the bacon. Opaque sauce, white and lovely over the golden noodles. 

 

Dean wheels his chair over to the kitchen table and messily and winds a mouthful onto a fork. 

 

It's alright. A little heavy. 

 

Dean tears through the food, and he sighs happily. 

 

"I wish I could do that," he says. 

 

Castiel's sure it's the pain medication still in his system. Dean is much more talkative now, and his openness is cheerful and strange.

 

"Do what?" Castiel asks. "Cook?"

 

Dean nods. "It's like magic," he says, shyly. He burps politely and turns a little green. 

 

"Are you alright?" Castiel asks. 

 

Dean nods. He's pales a little. He moves to wheel away from the table but his foot catches on the leg. He hisses suddenly, and he clutches at his stomach. 

 

Castiel helps him to the bathroom, where Dean vomits. 

 

"You have to eat slower," Castiel says. 

 

Dean nods weakly. 

 

"I've got some applesauce in the fridge. You've got to take your medicine and you can't do it on an empty stomach," he says. "When you've settled, I'll get you some. It'll help."

 

Dean groans. "I'm tired," he says.

 

"That's probably the lortab," Castiel says. "Pain meds are a rough ride."

 

Dean yawns. He looks so young, eyes nearly closed with exhaustion. Sweat along his brow. 

 

"Come on," Castiel says. "Let me get you some applesauce. You can fall asleep after you've had your antibiotics."

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Dean feels really weird when he wakes up- he feels like he's disconnected from his body. His head is heavy, his limbs are heavy. All of him feels heavy and strange. 

 

Castiel is light, though. It is like he is actually made of light as he cooks and works and talks. It is like his voice is a million voices- like the few times Dean can remember hearing a church choir. 

 

He hands him a pill, and Dean swallows it. 

 

"You should go sleep," Castiel says. "You look exhausted."

 

"That means tired, right?" Dean asks. He hopes it means tired. That's how he feels. 

 

Castiel smiles. "Yes, Dean. Can you make it back to your bedroom on your own?"

 

Dean reaches for his wheels, but his hands slip on the grips. "No," he answers. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

 

"Come on," Castiel says as he moves slowly behind him. "Let's get you to bed, okay?"

 

"I don't...don't want to sleep," Dean murmurs. "Hate sleeping. What if," he yawns, "what if there's a fire? Who will own me then?"

 

"No one will," Castiel says grimly. "You're not to be owned."

 

Dean doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes up, sweating in the dark right before sunrise. 

 

The only part of it all he can remember is the fire. 

 

His foot and body ache as he sits up. He grunts and looks at his hands. 

 

They're large hands. They're covered in scratches and scars and scabs. 

 

He remembers vaguely the time another slave got his hand caught in a thresher. He died of the gangrene. 

 

Dean doesn't even remember his name, just the sound of the fire on his funeral pyre. 

 

Dean doesn't like fires. 

 

He looks at the room in the dim light. There's a bookcase full of books with titles he can't read and a dresser full of clothes he can't wear and pictures of people he doesn't know. 

 

He feels both more safe  here and more alone here than he ever has before. 

I

He looks at the wheelchair and he carefully moves into it. He wheels to the bathroom. He still feels groggy as he turns on the bathroom light. 

 

He looks grey still. He was only sold under a week ago, and auctions always make him antsy. He hasn't been keeping food down since he found out he would  be sold, about two months ago. 

 

He lurches out of the chair to stand in front of the john, resting his weight on his outstretched arm against the wall.  

 

He pisses for a long time, and when he's done, he pulls up his pants and falls back into the chair heavily. He flushes and wheels back to his room. 

 

Castiel stands in the open door of his own bedroom and squints at Dean. 

 

His hair is more of a mess than usual. His eyes are heavy fallen, almost shut. He's sleep-flushed and in only his boxers and t-shirt. 

 

"Hello, Dean," he murmurs darkly. "Coffee."

 

He shuffles to the kitchen and Dean follows him. 

 

Castiel is pretty pitiful. He moves loosely and floppy. He knocks things over and moves clumsily. 

 

He finally switches on a machine and a rumbling begins. It pisses a dark liquid into a pitcher, and Castiel pours the liquid into two cups. He passes one to Dean. 

 

"Hot," he murmurs. 

 

Dean sips it. It is hot. It's also bitter and rich. 

 

Castiel sighs happily. "Useless without coffee," he explains. "I'm usually up a bit before you. Get my head screwed on."

 

Dean smiles and takes another sip. It's bracing stuff. 

 

"Gonna call a tutor today," Castiel says. "There's a guy I met the other day."

 

Dean nods. 

 

He'll learn to read. 

 

That's a start. 


	10. Chapter 10

Jess’s assistant blusters into a few days later. He has a full bag and a computer and a pen behind his ear.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “The protesters were particularly bad today. We’re going to start parking at the other garage for a few weeks to throw them from the scent.”

“Come on in,” Castiel gestures. “Dean and I are just cleaning up from breakfast.”

He nods and dumps all of his stuff on the kitchen table. He points to Dean in the wheelchair, drying dishes. “Dean, right?” he asks.

Dean looks like a deer in the headlights for a long moment.

“I’m Gabriel,” Jess’s assistant replies. “I’m not a sir or a mister or a master, okay? Just Gabriel.”

He extends a hand outward.

Dean takes it gingerly and shakes. “Gabriel,” he says.

Gabriel nods. “Yeah, that’s it, sparky. Cas wants me to be your tutor for some damnfool reason, so I guess I’m gonna be showing you how to read and whatnot.”

“Do you want me to stick around?” Castiel asks Dean. “I can always go into the office a little later.”

Dean looks at Gabriel and he looks at Castiel. He looks back at Gabriel and frowns slightly.

“I’ll be alright,” he answers. “I know you’re probably hell bent to get some work done.”

Castiel smiles at him. “I’ve got my phone. Hit ‘one’ on the house phone if something explodes. I’ll see you guys later.”

He wipes his hands and dashes out from the kitchen to put on shoes.

“What does Castiel do?” Dean asks. “His hands- they’re not all sored up like mine.”

“He’s an accountant,” Gabriel answers. He sits down at the table and unpacks his bag. “He makes numbers dance. It’s intense.”

Dean frowns and nods. He wheels to the table and looks at the papers laid out in front of him.

“Alright,” Gabriel says, “so you can say your alphabet. This is what it looks like written out.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

It’s rainy outside. Casitel slides into his car and drives from his apartment to the clinic, more towards the city center. His route takes him far away from the Chicago Slave Auction, which is nearer to the industrial district. He’s glad of that. The few times he’s had to drive by the auctions, he’s had to pull over at a gas station to get a handle on his stomach.

He thinks about the grey mud and the filth. He thinks about the flies and the whips. He thinks about the shock collars. He had to go to an auction last year with the clinic and it was so horrifying that he passed out.

He can’t quite imagine what Dean went through, and he’s glad sometimes that he can’t.

Castiel takes a sip of his coffee as he pulls into the parking garage on the other side of the compound, picking up on Gabriel’s hint.

It’s empty- no protesters anywhere near this garage. It’s the same protocol as the other one, just a different code for the elevator. Castiel makes the walk from the garage to the campus soon enough, and then he heads into the administration building to get some work done.

Castiel loves numbers. He loves the way they move and make sense. He loves the way they act so logically.

He hasn’t had the time to get in and work all week, so there’s a pretty considerable backlog. He gets through the receipts and the slips before he starts getting tax forms together and budgeting. By six o’clock, he’s gotten most of what he needed to do today done, so he waves to Balthazar at the office across from him and heads back out to his car.

It all seems pretty normal until he pulls out onto the street, and then all hell breaks loose.

There are a couple of cops nearby who are trying to reign in order, but the protesters have found the garage and they’re shouting. There’s so much noise, and there’s a sudden thump as an egg cracks on his window.

Castiel barely has the presence of mind to not turn on the windshield wipers and he drives on. He makes it fifteen minutes away before he pulls into a gas station and clears the egg from his window.

He sits in his car, shaking, for another ten minutes.

He hates it when he runs into the protesters. He hates the realization that there are people who fight so vehemently for the pain of others.

He turns on his radio and tries to hold himself together as he drives home.

Gabriel and Dean are right where he left them when he gets it, but there’s a great deal more paper on the table and Gabriel has pushed his hair back with a clippy.

“Oh, you’re home!” he says when Castiel comes in. “So Dean needs glasses and he’s picking up the alphabet pretty well.”

“I do?” Dean asks. “I can’t use Castiel’s?”

“Not for drinking, kiddo, for your eyes,” Gabriel says, beginning to pack up. “So much time in the sun and the work picking probably wasn’t too good for them. There’s an optometrist at the clinic if you want to take him or I could take him. I’ve accrued a shitload of personal days and Jess wants me to use them pretty badly. Wants the office to herself- some sort of tall lawyer she wants to shack up with or something.”

“Uh, you might want to call the office,” Castiel answers. “Some pretty scary stuff was happening as I was leaving today. I used the other garage and got egged anyway.”

Gabriel’s face darkens, suddenly. “Both of them?” he says. “Shit.”

Dean suddenly looks terrified. “What happened?” he asks. “What am I gonna do?”

“I’ll have him make a house call,” Gabriel says. “He’s done it before, he’ll do it again. It’s fine.” He looks over at Dean and adds, “For now, all you’re gonna do is heal and work on what we covered today.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and says, “I’ll be in touch, Cas. You guys stay out of trouble.”

He leaves and Dean looks up at Castiel and says, “What’s glasses?”

“What Gabriel wears, over his eyes?” Castiel replies. “Those are glasses. They help him see better.” He sits down at the kitchen table and continues, “What did you get up to today?”

“Dee-ee-eh-enn,” he spells out loud. “That’s how my name is made. Sea-eh-ess-tee-eye-ee-ell. That’s how your name is made.”

Castiel smiles at him wildly. “That’s amazing!” he says. “Can you write them?”

Dean smiles back shyly. “Not real well. My writin’ doesn’t look anything like Gabriel’s.”

“You’ll get more practice,” Castiel replies. “It takes time.”

Dean smiles, barely. A little sad. “I know,” he answers. “It’s just...it’s hard.”

Castiel smiles back at him. “I’m glad you’re trying,” he says.

“I am too,” he says. “I...uh...do you have my purchase record?”

Castiel nods.

“Um...does it...does it have anything in there my earliest purchase?” he asks.

“We only have your record to when you your five,” Castiel says. “Nothing before that. And it all has your name as ‘Michael,’ too.”

Dean nods a couple of times. “Okay,” he says. “Th-thanks.”

There are questions between them, ones neither of them can bear to press right now. There is closeness and there is distance, and neither of them can take the step of the dance.

“Are you hungry?” Castiel asks, instead of any of the things he wants to ask.

“Can you show me how?” Dean answers. “How to make supper?”

Castiel stands up and smiles at him. “I think a chicken pot pie is in order,” he says. “You’ve never made a piecrust before, have you?”

 


	12. Chapter 12

The phone rings as Castiel begins to whisk the broth into the roux ("The flour and butter thicken the whole mix into a gravy. It looks weird, but it works, I swear."). 

 

Castiel frowns as the phone begins its second round of ringing. He beats the whisk against the side of the pan, covers it, and pulls is off heat. 

 

"Cas," Gabriel shouts into the phone. There's great noise behind him, a crowd shouting. "Cas, Cas, turn on the news. Turn on- take Dean out of the room and turn on the television. Turn on-" 

 

The phone cuts out. 

 

Castiel walks from the kitchen to the living room and turns on the tv. 

 

"-today as protestors downtown firebombed The Roadhouse Clinic of Chicago, killing hundreds, including the program director, Jessica Moore and the clinic's physician, noted doctor Robert Singer."

 

There was great fire on television. Chaos. Noise. 

 

Castiel switches it off and sits down. 

 

He stares at the phone still in his hands, shaking. 

 

"What happened?" Dean asks, wheeling into the room. 

 

Castiel looks from his hands to Dean. 

 

"The clinic," Castiel says, "they...there was an attack on the clinic. Jess and...and your doctor, Doctor Singer, they're both dead."

 

Dean looks ready to fall out of his body. Like he wants to stand up and sit down and run and fight. He just sits there though, and the shocked silence spreads between them like dew. 

 

"What- what does that mean?" Dean asks. "For me? For you?"

 

Castiel blinks several times, slow and scared. "I don't know," he answers. "I don't think it changes anything between you and I, but if it does, I'm going to fight for you. You're not going to the fields, Dean. I promise."

 

Dean looks somewhat comforted. Relieved. 

 

"Um," Castiel continues. "The television right now is particularly...violent. You may want to...could you help me finish dinner?"

 

Dean nods. "Yes," he answers. 

 

It is terribly tense in the house as they cook. 

 

They're both afraid. 


	13. Chapter 13

Dean manages to eat slowly. The temperature of the food seems to work in his favor- it steams in the bowl, hot from the oven. He stirs at it and eats carefully. He doesn't eat as much as he usually does, either. 

 

"This is good," he comments. "This is real good."

 

Castiel nods, wordless. "My father used to make it when I was young. Good for rainy days. Heavy."

 

Dean nods again. He places his spoon in his bowl and says, "I was wondering if you had any- any books I could try. I know that it won't work or that I can't do that much, but I'd like to maybe try."

 

"Absolutely," Castiel says. "Help me clean up the kitchen some and I'll find you a book. I think I've got a couple of things."

 

Dean nods and wheels over to the sink. He flips the water on, and places his dish under the spray. Castiel stands up and begins to wash dishes. Dean grabs a dry rag. 

 

They work quietly, and soon they're all through. Dean puts the low dishes away and Castiel takes care of the high dishes. 

 

"Let me see if I can find something," Castiel says, heading into his bedroom while Dean wheels into the living room. 

 

He finds it easily enough. It's a small book. Grey, thin, hardcover. A rough drawing of a ladybug on the front. Castiel drags his fingers across the surface of it, scratchy under his touch.

 

He clears his throat and walks back into the living room. "Okay," he says. "So it's definitely a children's book, but it's large print and it's not that bad. Better than seeing Spot  run, as long as we're honest. The Lost Bear."

 

He hands the book to Dean who looks at it for a long moment. 

 

He gingerly opens it, and the spine creaks. It is an old book, and well loved. One of only a handful from Castiel's childhood that survived. 

 

Dean looks at the first page nervously for a long moment, and then he carefully begins to sound out the letters and trace their shape with his finger. 

 

Castiel tries to stay grounded in the moment, but it's hard. It's hard to pay attention when he's also waiting for the phone to ring again. Dean had just painstakingly spelled out the title when the phone did ring. 

 

"Excuse me," Castiel says. 

 

Dean watches him step into the hallway. 

 

"Hello," Castiel answers. 

 

"Cas," Gabriel replies from the other end. "Cas, listen. They bombed out the dorms and the offices. The paper files are all gone. There are backups on the servers- electronic everything in our network cloud, too. They lost the personnel  lists in the attack. You and Dean and I- anyone who left or didn't come in today, we're safe. You're gonna want to change your license in the next couple of weeks and drive a rental or use cabs, but you're safe. "

 

"Oh thank god," Castiel breathes. 

 

"Bobby and Jess's people are being immediately relocated," Gabriel continues in a much lower tone. "The farm in Montana."

 

They're being shuttled into Canada, Castiel knows. A legal precaution. 

 

"Okay," Castiel continues. "Why tell me all this?"

 

"Because I'm a messenger, Novak, and I'm scared," he answers immediately. "I don't know where else I can find work in this city. Lot of people don't hire freedmen. I also lost at least two very personal friends, and I know that you're answering the phone. Okay?"

 

"Oh god," Castiel murmurs. "Balthazar."

 

Gabriel hangs up and Castiel slides down the wall and buries his face in his hands. 

 

He hears the roll of wheels soon enough. 

 

 A cleared throat. 

 

"This too shall pass," Dean says. His voice is deep. Strong. 

 

Castiel looks up at him. He clears his own throat and stands. "Sorry about that," he says. 

 

"Don't be," Dean answers. "You don't get to choose how you feel. You just feel it, and that's how you are." He rolls backward a bit. "I think I need to take a bath," he continues. "What do I do with my foot?"

 

"The doctor gave us a sleeve," Castiel answers. "Should be plenty of hot water for you. Get it drawn while I fetch."


	14. Chapter 14

Castiel walks into the bathroom with the latex sleeve just as Dean takes off his shirt. 

 

"Oh!" Castiel exclaims. "Sorry." 

 

He starts to back out of the bedroom just as he sees- as he notices. The scars. 

 

Dean doesn't flinch away, and Castiel doesn't stop looking. He can't stop looking and Dean can't move from under his eyes. 

 

The scars are long and thin and raised. Some of them are whisper thin, like the one on Gabriel's face. Some of them are light pink, other red and brown. Barely not scabbed over anymore. They wrap over his shoulders and pecs, his biceps. Cas can't even see his back, but he shudders at the thought. 

 

"There are good slaves, and there are bad slaves," Dean says. His voice is low. A growl. "I wasn't a good slave."

 

He suddenly looks like he did in that photograph. He looks furious and powerful. 

 

"What happens to bad slaves?" Castiel asks. 

 

"Get whipped. And if you get whipped long enough, you get sold to the houses," he answers. 

 

"You...you thought," Castiel backs into the door, closing it suddenly, accidentally, "you thought I'd bought you as a sex slave."

 

Dean's jaw flexes and then relaxes. Stiff. 

 

"I didn't know," he says. "I'd never been bought for that before. I thought you were just one of those perverts- I thought you were waiting or something."

 

Castiel sinks down again, the second time that day and he resists the urge to scream. 

 

To shout and rave and cry and moan. All he can do is take hollow breaths and shake his head. 

 

He looks up at Dean and he says, "You have agency over your own body, Dean." 

 

"What does that mean?" Dean asks. 

 

"It's yours to control," Castiel answers. "No one touches you if you don't want them to. No one. Including me."

 

Dean nods.

 

"Okay," he answers. 


	15. Chapter 15

He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. He tells Dean that he’ll be in bed if he needs him, and he passes out. It’s not particularly restful sleep, though, especially when Gabriel calls him again at about three am.

"What?" Castiel answers.

"They’ve scheduled the funeral for the end of the week," he says. "Balthazar is in critical condition- he’ll have some scary scars, but he’s alive. There’s going to be a plaque for the ones whose...who we couldn’t find.”

"How many?” Castiel asks.

“Seventy five freedmen. Two hundred staff,” he answers. “Roughly. We’re still looking for people.”

“What about Jess? Who’s...directing?” Castiel asks.

"Clinic in Vancouver is sending someone- Pamela Barnes? She’s supposed to be excellent. And the lawyer, Winchester, he’s gathering phone numbers. He’ll probably call you at a decent hour because he’s a more decent man then I am."

Gabriel sounds as tired as Castiel feels.

"Dean thought he was bought as a sex slave," Castiel murmurs into the phone.

"When I was freed, the same thing happened to me," he answers. "We get it a lot."

"This is more information I would have enjoyed having earlier," Castiel says. He yawns. "What do I have to do?"

"Don’t talk to the media," Gabriel says. "Stay quiet and stay in. Go to the funerals you want to. Don’t drag Dean into it, at least not any more than he might ask. Remember that he’s your job now. This is,” he laughs slightly, bitterly. “This is what Jess left you.”

Castiel coughs, stirring the phlegm from his lungs. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Keep doing it,” Gabriel says. “He’s amazing. He’s actually looking me in the eye and he talks. I mean, shit. I didn’t talk to anyone the first year I was out of the fields.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel sighs, “I’m going to fuck this up.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel answers. “There’s no way to do it without fucking up.”

He hangs up, and then he flops back down on the mattress. He shuts his eyes as tight as he can, and he exhales. He looks over at his alarm clock, whose blinking numbers read 3:28. He lies back there in the silence of his room.

“I can’t do this,” he whispers to the darkness behind his eyes. “Jess, I can’t do this. Why did you think I could do this?”

His phone rings again next to him, the vibration like a beehive on the sheets. He answers it without opening his eyes.

“Novak,” he mutters.

“Castiel Novak?” someone asks. “Accountant for Chicago Roadhouse? Sorry, sorry, I’m Sam Winchester. I’m a lawyer, I was working-”

“With Jess,” Castiel interrupts. “I’ve heard of you, yeah. Guess I should tell Gabriel you’re not a more decent man.”

“What?” the man on the other line asks.

“Nothing,” Castiel answers. “I’m alive. So’s Dean.”

“Dean?” he asks.

“The uh...the guy,” Castiel replies. “The Roadhouse bought him? I’m working to get him emancipated?”

“Oh!” he exclaims. “Thanks. Sorry, I’m tired. Long,” he yawns, “long day.”  
“Get some sleep,” Castiel says. “God knows I’m trying to.”

“I get it,” Sam Winchester, lawyer, replies. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Good to know you’re still in the world.”

Castiel hangs up and turns over on his side.

He looks at the way the light falls from behind his blinds, the way the long shadows stretch on the floor from the streetlights.

He looks at them until he falls back asleep.

* * *

 

 

Dean sleeps a long time, body clean. His feet are sore, but being off of them helps tremendously, and the steady heat of his bath helped, too.

As he sleeps, he dreams.

He dreams about the feeling of dirt under his fingernails and the feeling of dirt under his feet. Dirt on his face and arms and legs. Dirt all over his body.

He dreams about the heat of the sun above him. He dreams about the salt from his sweat.

He dreams about heat, incredible heat. Heat he can’t believe or understand.

The heat stops coming from the sun and turns into a naked flame instead. The heat turns into a fire. Orange light and terrible smoke and choking. Running. Weight.

He wakes up, and Castiel is standing in his doorway, head turned to the side.

“You were screaming,” he says.

“Oh,” Dean answers.

Castiel stands there, uncomfortable for a long moment, head cocked to the side. There’s a look on his face that Dean doesn’t really understand. Like Dean’s just told him something he can’t quite believe. But more than that, though. Like he’s sad. But he’s not sad for him, he’s sad for Dean.

Dean turns away and yawns. “Gonna hit the hay,” he murmurs.

Castiel nods. “I’ll shut your door. Sorry I barged in.”

He leaves and Dean can’t figure out how he feels anymore, about Castiel and his beautiful blue eyes or about the dream he’s been having his whole life.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Castiel didn’t go to the funeral. He stayed at home with Dean and worked with his reading and writing some more. Worked on teaching him to cook. He didn’t really turn on the television and he kept his phone as close to himself as he could stand.

At night he laid in his bed, mourning, awake, for hours and hours.

He had a dream, late one night, that Jess was there. She stood in a great pool of light, her blonde hair around her face. She didn’t say anything. It was like she couldn’t say anything. As if she had been muted.

Around about Wednesday, Castiel pokes his head into the fridge and says, “Dean have you ever been grocery shopping?”

Dean frowns slightly. “Like a company store?” he asks.

Company stores are pretty common practice on the plantations. What little money the slave can scrape together gets spent there, and usually the money that overseers and other paid help gets spent there too. It figures Dean would have run into them.

“Kind of,” Castiel answers. He closes the fridge and pours himself a glass of water. “Probably a lot bigger, and we’d just be buying food. If you’re not up, you can stay here, but I’m beginning to get some cabin fever and could stand to stretch my legs.”  
Dean thinks for a long moment. “I think I could do it,” he says.

Castiel nods and smiles. “Excellent. Let me put on my shoes and we’ll go.”

Going places with Dean is strange. He looks at everything in equal parts horror and amazement. He doesn’t like the size of things or the sounds of them, but watches it all intensely.

The grocery store is no exception. He jumps every time he hears an errant beep or the intercom comes on, but he looks at the sheer variety of things in awe.

He looks at the peaches for a long time and he says, “I picked peaches once. We weren’t allowed to eat them, just pick them. The smell got into everything.”

“Would you like some peaches?” Castiel asks.

“I was a bad slave,” he comments. “I’ve had my fill.” He smiles a little. Mischevious. Dangerous.

It’s human and defiant and beautiful.

By the time they finish, it’s about one o’clock. They’ve just unloaded all of the bags when there’s a knock on Castiel’s door. Dean startles slightly, but he regains his composure quickly enough.

Castiel frowns a moment and then remembers. “That’s the lawyer. Sam Winchester. Sorry, he’s coming for lunch. I totally forgot I invited him. I can ask him to come another day-”

“You don’t have to,” Dean interrupts. “I think I’ll be okay. And if I’m not, I’ll just duck back into the room.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

He answers the door.

Sam Winchester turns out to be about seven feet tall. He fills up the entire doorframe- he has to leans down a little bit to be seen. “Hi,” he says amicably. “I’m Sam. You must be Castiel?”

Castiel nods. “Come in,” he says. “Sorry, I don’t have anything prepared yet, I must admit I completely forgot you were coming.”

Sam steps inside, and without the tight frame of the doorway, he looks smaller. He’s dwarfs Castiel by a good five inches or so, but he has a pleasant face. He also has light brown hair and hazel eyes. Tanned skin.

He smiles, and dimples show up, too.

He’s fucking precious.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can come back another day if you’d like or I can always help you cook.”

Castiel smiles at him. “Sure,” he says. “Come and meet Dean.”

“Oh, Dean!” Sam exclaims. “Actually, that’s part of why I’m here.” He lopes behind Castiel into the kitchen.

“Hi,” he greets to Dean. “I’m Sam.” He extends his hand outward, leaning toward the man in the wheelchair.

Dean takes his hand carefully and shakes it. “Dean,” he answers. He still looks at little deferential. Shy. Nervous. He’s introduced himself to a stranger, though. It’s huge.

Sam puts his briefcase down on the kitchen table and opens it. “Okay,” he says. “So you weren’t there for the reading of Jess’s will, but she uh, she left you a letter and some other information. She was very specific about this, actually. I’d been working with her, revising her last will and-” he pauses. He swallows heavily. “Sorry,” he adds.

It’s so obvious, Castiel is amazed he didn’t see it before. There’s a greyness to Sam. There’s something sad and torn inside of him. There’s no black armband, but there’s something to his color, to the quality of the black of his clothes. He’s mourning. 

He’s haunted, too.

He clears his throat.

Dean wheels over and hands him a glass of water.

Sam takes it, no words.

He coughs. “Jess left you a letter and some of her papers. She was also insistent that you continue your relationship with Dean.” He pulls out a large envelope and hands it to Castiel. He clears his throat once more. “I’m...sorry.”

Castiel nods. “Don’t be,” he says. “It’s not...easy. Burying people.”

“Jess, um,” Sam continues, “was probably my best friend. We went to school together and we’d kind of dated off and on for a long time. We’d just reconnected after all of that time and uh- I didn’t-”

He sighs. “She’s gone.”

Castiel nods. “I understand,” he says.

He looks at the mess of apples that are on his counter and he says, “You wanna help me and Dean make a pie?”

 


	17. Chapter 17

Sam takes his suit jacket off and rolls up his sleeves. Loosens his necktie and stands with his head carefully crooked forward so he doesn't bang into the pans hanging over the stove. Castiel has him peeling and chopping apples as he shows Dean how to make a piecrust. 

 

"If we use vodka in place of some of the water, it won't turn tough," he explains as he switches on the food processor. Dean flinches slightly but he stays there. 

 

He doesn't much like the loud kitchen equipment but he understands the necessity of it. 

 

Once it comes together, Castiel dumps the mass of dough onto the counter. Dean wheels forward and pokes at it a little, experimentally. He presses it out into a disc, and then Castiel wraps it in plastic wrap.

 

They deposit it into the freezer to chill, and then Castiel starts adding sugar and lemon and spices to the apples. Brown sugar, cinnamon, cardamom.  Dean smells each jar long and deep, fascinated. 

 

Sam outright towers over Dean, who is stuck in his wheelchair. In about four weeks he'll get his casts off and he'll be a able to stand again, but for now he's in the strange position of being smaller than anyone else in the room. 

 

"I don't get to cook often," Sam says. "It gets so busy, between the office and the clinic and the doctor's office."

 

Dean frowns. "Doctor's office?"

 

"I have asthma," he explains. "My birth family was killed in a fire. I was the only one that survived but I had some really serious lung damage. Makes me susceptible to all kinds of problems."

 

"Shit," Dean murmurs. "That's rough." 

 

"It's just a thing I live with," he answers. "Anyway, the clinic in Vancouver is sending Pamela Barnes as an interim director. I've talked to her before she's uh, friendly."

 

"I haven't heard of her," Castiel answers. "How's she get involved."

 

"Weird story," Sam says. "Her ex-husband was a slave owner. He was pretty happy in their marriage until his slaves started disappearing and then they kept disappearing. Turns out she was running illegal emancipation efforts out of her gift wrap room. Took half of his property in the divorce, and then she freed them too."

 

"She sounds well qualified," Castiel replies. "When is she coming?"

 

"Sometime this week. She'll be working out of the temporary office we've set up in the suburbs," he says. "We'll need you down there pretty soon. Most of accounting is either dead or has pretty serious injuries. Balthazar Magnusson will be a long time healing."

 

Dean backs away suddenly. He wheels out of the kitchen unexpectedly.

 

Castiel and Sam watch him go. 

 


	18. Chapter 18

Dean's never been a good sleeper. Usually got about four hours a night, but not much more. It's been worse than usual, though. 

 

Adam had been a nice enough guy. Hard worker. Pretty smile. A confident way of holding his body. When his arm got caught in the thresher, his red, red blood had gotten all over Dean's hands as he tried to carry him. He died, that day. 

 

The blood had never really washed off. 

 

The way they talked about the clinic, the way they talked about the deaths, it brought the blood back a little brighter. 

 

He closed the door to his room and looked at his feet. 

 

They were thick in their casts, the toes poking up out of the top. He wished he was out of them. He wished his body would work. He wished he could run away from all of the blood and the fields. 

 

He looked up at the ceiling.

 

They'd always wanted him to be religious out in the fields. Jesus had been hard preached, as had heaven and days of milk and honey. Dean had never been a believing man, though. He'd never been a praying man, either. 

 

He closes his eyes and looks back down. 

 

When he wheels back into the kitchen, Sam and Castiel are both looking at the letter in the envelope and some papers. They both have pens, and they look at the papers seriously. 

 

"Dean," Castiel says, "your purchasing history, it only goes to when you're four. Not just in our records but in all of them. You just show up suddenly. Out of the blue."

 

Dean shrugs. "So?"

 

"So we should  have more comprehensive records," Sam says. "We should have birth certificates and tracking numbers. We should have a huge paper trail. Most of the people who come through the clinic have a file as thick as a dictionary, but yours is only about fifteen pages."

 

Dean shrugs. "So my file is weird," he says. "What does that mean?"

 

"It means you're in a legal loophole," Sam answers. He looks at Dean, expression serious. "I think it means you were sold illegally."


	19. Chapter 19

Castiel opens the envelope, and inside is another copy of Dean’s file. It’s the same as the one he’s been look at over the past couple of weeks. He looks at it for a long moment, and then he hears Sam say, “Is that it?”

“What?” Castiel asks.

‘Dean’s file,” Sam clarifies. “Is that it?”

Castiel nods. “Yeah, this is all of it, I guess. I got a copy but I thought maybe there would be a little more.”

“A little- a little more?” Sam asks. He takes the file and flips through it a few times. “Files for guys Dean’s age are usually a few hundred pages. Saw one once that was six hundred. This isn’t enough paperwork for a slave that’s just been born. There’s,” he pauses and frowns. “There isn’t even a birth certificate. And look at his tracking numbers, they’re not consistent. That’s fraud- that’s a fifteen year prison term per incorrect digit.” He pulls a pen out of his briefcase and starts circling and underlining. “And this roster- they haven’t used these kind of rosters since the thirties. Okay, see how you’ve got two signatures and phone numbers? That’s- okay, he should have a birth certificate and medical records. He should have a paper trail a mile wide. Packing slips. Anything.” He looks at Castiel, horrified. “What happened?”

Castiel suddenly feels incredibly stupid. He thought the file looked brief, but he didn’t know.

“I don’t know,” Castiel answers. “No one told me.”  
Sam looks at the file again. “And his name is wrong, too.” He shakes his head. “Someone’s been trying to hide him,” he says. “What happened here?”

Dean wheels in moments later

 


	20. Chapter 20

His hands shake a little before he touches him, and then they calloused and rough when they actually touch him. His green eyes look at him, a question. Blonde brows slightly furrowed. Freckled face serious. Nervous.   
Castiel leans forward and kisses Dean deeply, roughly. He feels that thing in his body fall apart, and feels his blood rush suddenly. He feels himself become aroused, so long that the sensation is nearly foreign to him.   
“Wanted you,” Castiel murmurs. “Wanted you since I first saw you. So beautiful. So strange.”  
Dean moans, and his kiss becomes a little more insistent. His body is strong and hard even though he hasn’t been in the fields for almost two months. He’s intense and beautiful. His hands work their way under Castiel’s shirt, and then they edge along his waist. There’s nothing tantalizing. There’s nothing teasing. It’s all raw want and bright hot need. It’s like being chained to a thunderbolt, and Castiel feels like he’s going to scream when Dean’s hand finally-

He wakes up panting in his bed. He looks around in the dark bedroom. He sees the barest outline of his furtniture at the door. He can see plainly he is the only one in his bed. He pants and shakes, and that warm feeling of arousal has disappeared utterly. Only the feeling of rawness, that jitteriness, remains. He runs his hands in his hair and he sighs.  
“What the fuck are you doing?” Castiel murmurs to the darkness of his room, not for the first time. Probably not for the last either.   
He can’t want Dean. He really can’t. Dean is healing or something. He thought he was a sex slave, he thought he had been bought to be used. And to pursue something romantic with him? Now, at least, it would be unforgivable. It would be evil. It would be a violation.   
Castiel lays in his bed in a cold sweat, all through the night. He can’t sleep. If he sleeps, it might happen again, and he can’t let himself do that. He can’t let himself want Dean. Let him want anyone else, let him want models and dead men and anyone else, but not Dean. Dear God, not Dean.


	21. Chapter 21

Sam starts coming over every couple of days or so. He brings financial paperwork for Castiel work on and more information about building a possible suit around Dean’s lack of paperwork.

They’re both sitting in the living room, Sam on the floor, when he says, “So the papertrail or lack thereof isn’t necessarily proof. It’s not really proof at all, but it is indication of years of neglect. If we could find something hard, hard proof that his initial sale was illegal, we could put all of his former owners out of business, at the very least.” He pulls out a legal pad, flips to a page. “Dean worked for fifteen of the largest plantations in the Midwest and four of the largest in the South. His case, his file, it’s primed to tear down twenty titans of agriculture.” Sam looks back at the file and shakes his head. “This is just- this is unreal.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Dean says quietly. He’d been in tutoring with Gabriel in the kitchen. He’s in the doorway, Gabriel standing behind him.

Sam looks at them both and he looks back at the paperwork.

He licks his lips and nods. He shuts the file and stands. Hands it to Dean. “This is everything I have,” Sam says. “This is the file and all of my notes. Hold onto them. Bury them, burn them, take them to another lawyer. If you want me to work on this more, let me know. Doesn’t have to be today, doesn’t have to be tomorrow. Maybe it’s never. It’s your decision. Your life.”

Dean looks at the file for a long moment, and then he nods.

Sam nods back and he waves to Castiel. Walks out of the apartment.

“Mih-kay-el,” Dean says slowly, looking at the file. He pauses. “Why did they give me the wrong name?” He says.

“Did they call you that?” Castiel asks.

“They didn’t call me anything other than ‘boy,’” he answers. “The other slaves I did talk to, they all knew me as Dean because that was I told them. And besides, none of them could read either.” He looks at Castiel for a long moment and then he says, “What have you been doing?”

“Sorting through the financial papers and the requisitions for construction. Making sure the budget is in order. Nothing too important,” he says.

“Do you think I could go out with Gabriel?” he asks. “I haven’t gotten out of the apartment in a couple of days and I’d like to...stretch my legs a little.” He smiles a little, goofy.

“Do whatever you’d like,” Castiel answers. “It’s your life.”

Dean nods a couple of times. Gabriel rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder and says, “Go put on some nice clothes, Dean. Lapdances, on me.”

Dean wheels off and Castiel looks at Gabriel, horrified. “A strip club?” He asks hoarsely.

“He’s never been to one,” Gabriel says. “And he hasn’t had any safe sexual encounters. There’s actually a club that the clinic has an account at- it’s a safe space for recently freed people. This is part of him becoming free.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No diseases,” he says. “No prostitution.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “You’re such a freak,” he says. “I’d ask you if you’d like to come but I actually think you’d embarrass everyone.”  
Castiel groans and walks briskly from the kitchen to his bedroom. Slams the door shut and stands in front of his bathroom sink for a long time. Angry, for reasons he doesn’t understand.

He takes off his clothes and climbs into the shower. The water is warm and his water pressure is intense. It feels like a drill on his back, bringing all of his blood to the surface of his body. He doesn’t reach for any soap or anything- he just stands there in the hot spray for a long time. The water slowly becomes cold, and once it is freezing he climbs out of the shower and lays on his bed, naked and wet and shivering.

He closes his eyes.

“That’s enough,” he says. “That’s enough wallowing for today.”

He gets up and gets dressed and goes to the grocery store.

 


	22. Chapter 22

Dean finds the strip club horribly overwhelming. There’s so much noise and the lights are strange- blinding in some places and pitch black in other.

Before they walked in, Gabriel turned to him and said, “Okay, so all of these women are free and working for the money. Don’t touch them without their permission, don’t whip out your dick, and don’t go in a back room with anyone. Remember that none of their names are real. Be generous with the money,” and he handed him an envelope thick with one dollar bills, “and don’t drink too much.”

Dean nodded a couple of times.

And now he was watching women move and it all feels so strange and so wrong.

He’s never really seen women like this before- without all of their clothes on. The barracks for slaves were always divided by sex, and slaves who broke the rule endured more than whippings. He’s never seen them writhing and moving like this. He’s seen them working, though, and he knows by the way they hold their shoulders, by the economy of their smiles, by the distance in their glances and the way that they never make eye contact that this is work, and hard work too.

The women are beautiful, but they’re distant and odd. He doesn’t want them. He doesn’t want them the way he wanted Adam or the way he wants Castiel.

Dean knows that they’re free, but he’s not sure how he feels about all that work on his account.

He takes a sip of the beer Gabriel ordered for him, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s not in it at all. He hands Gabriel the envelope full of cash and wheels off to the bathroom.

Dean washes his hands a few times, the water cold on his hands and where it runs up his arms. He closes his eyes at the feeling of it. It makes him think of a creek at the farm where he picked pecans. He remembers the feeling of the water against his roaring pulse point and he remembers the way his hands felt at the dust from the shade of the trees washed from him. He remembers the smell of the trees, the smell of the nuts, the smell of that rainless place.

He suddenly smells the urine of the mens room and he snaps out of that moment.

He wheels back into the club and finds Gabriel, who has his lap full of a woman with dark skin and long hair in knotted locks. “Can we get out of here?” He asks.

Gabriel looks at him for a moment and nods. Hands the woman a fifty and stands up. “How about some coffee?” he asks, and they leave that place.

Dean feels much better out in the open air, even though here in the city the sky is so different. The lights at night, it is like the stars fell and live in the huge concrete towers all around.

Gabriel pushes him and they move slowly and easily down the sidewalk. “So,” he says, pointing ahead, “what’s that sign say?”  
Dean looks at it for a long moment and says, “Coffee, 24 hours.”

“Good on you, son,” Gabriel says. “Jo’s on me.”

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

The light of the diner doesn’t quite feel real. It’s a little too bright, a little too blue. It’s grounding after the strange golden quality of the strip club. It’s unreal in a different way, like maybe it’s too thoroughly real. It’s almost like the fields again. It’s almost like some kind of insane dream. It’s all like some kind of insane dream.

Dean looks at his huge plate of food and he takes a sip of coffee instead of eating anything. He loves coffee. He loves the earthy, dark bitterness of it. He loves richness of it in his mouth. It’s like the chocolate Gabriel gave him, or the bacon Castiel gives him for breakfast sometimes. It’s better than anything he ever had to eat as a slave.

Gabriel takes a huge bite of his waffle and says, “Good god, I’m glad maple syrup found me.”

He smiles widely and merrily. He’s got a wicked sweet tooth and always seems to have some sugar nearby.

Dean smiles and takes a bite of his eggs. Pretty good, fluffy and golden. Not as good as Castiel’s, though. He puts something in them, some spice or herb that makes them taste grassy and fresh. So good.

“Dean,” Gabriel says. “Do you know what it means to be gay?”

“And all shall be merry and gay?” Dean answers, remembering some song that was sung at him when he was a child.

Gabriel laughs briefly. “No, it means ugh, well for guys, it means you’re into guys. I’m gay, okay? Well, actually I’m- okay, one thing at a time. Men who are gay are into other men, and women who are gay are into other women.”

Dean thinks about this for a moment. “Okay,” he says.

Gabriel looks at him seriously for a moment, paused. He nods and takes another bite of his waffle.

Gabriel seems to be a nice enough guy. He’s freed, too, but for a longer time than Dean. He’s got hair that’s a little long and he’s a little short but his sense of humor is wicked and he’s painfully patient with Dean. Helps him go over those numbers and letters over and over again and it helps, it helps Dean makes sense of their shapes and their ideas. In the evenings, Dean and Castiel sit in the living room and Castiel helps him go through words and stories. Dean wishes more than anything else that he could read all of the words in Castiel’s house, that he could read them to Castiel and that Castiel would listen. That he could be tall and strong for him like he never could be for Adam or anyone else.

“Do you know about Atlas?” Gabriel asks.

“That book full of maps?” Dean replies.

Gabriel shakes his head. “Different Atlas. Atlas was this guy, and he...screwed up big. I forget how, but he messed up and his punishment was that he had to hold the world on his shoulders for all of eternity.” He takes another bite of his waffle and says around the bite of food, “Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders, dude. Talk to me.”

“Castiel,” he says, and then he pauses, frustrated. “Castiel’s- have you ever like seen him? Like the shape of his body and his eyes and the way he talks. Have you ever listened to him talk- I just-” he sighs. “I want to be next to him, all the time.”

Gabriel nods.

“I don’t have words for him. I wish I had words I could give him and I don’t,” Dean says. “How do you give someone the right words?” He feels that strange thing inside of him.

Gabriel shakes his head. “I don’t know, kiddo,” he says. “I just don’t know.”

Dean pokes at his eggs. Takes another bite. Still not as good as Castiel’s, even with the addition of mushrooms, which he’d never had until about a week ago. He likes them. They’re almost meaty.

“And Sam Winchester- that lawyer- he wants to build a case around my sale and I don’t think I want anyone...anyone looking at me,” he says. “I don’t want to go back there.”

“Gabriel pushes his empty plate out to the center of the table and leans forward on his elbows. “You don’t have to,” he says.

“He also said that it could shut down the farms where I worked,” Dean continues. “Which means that the other slaves could be freed, right?”

Gabriel wipes his face with his hand. “I need another waffle,” he says, flagging a waitress.

 


	24. Chapter 24

 

Castiel is walking from the parking garage into his building when he sees Sam. He's not wearing his suit and tie, he's wearing jeans and some worn out purple t-shirt. He looks casual. This isn't a business call, whatever it is.

Sam waves to him happily. "Hey," he says, "forgot my case. May I?" He points upstairs, a question.

Castiel nods and lets him into the building. His arms are full of paper grocery bags, and Sam reaches over and grabs one.

"Thanks," Castiel says.

"No problem," Sam replies. "Midwestern family, there was a big emphasis on manners, you know?"

"I thought you were from California," Castiel says, surprised.

"I went to school out there but I grew up in a little town in the free counties of Kansas, right near the border," he answers. "My dad was a mechanic and mom taught school. Grew up with a lot of neighbors with real strong convictions."

Castiel nodded a couple of times. "And you were adopted?"

"Yeah. I got really lucky- my birth family had lived in a slaving county and-" he pauses. Shifts his weight from foot to foot. "But for the grace of god," he murmurs. He almost sounds guilty. Looks a little embarrassed, too.

The elevator stops on Castiel's floor and they climb out and head down the hall to his apartment. The clinic pays well enough to buy his groceries and keep the lights on, but Castiel's well managed inheritance pays his rent.

He switches on his lights and he and Sam take the few brisk steps to his kitchen. Dump his groceries on the counter and lean on the walls.

Sam is very, very tall and surprisingly muscular. His shoulders are broad and strong, and without the impediment of sleeves, his large biceps are visible. His shirt sticks to his body just the smallest amount from his summer sweat, showing the ghost outline of pectorals and abs. Beautiful and sculpted. Smart. Funny. Polite and kind.

Desirable, but not forbidden. Not apocalyptic.

"Would you like a drink?" Castiel asks, and Sam smiles in reply.

"I'd love one," he says. "It's been so stressful since the bombing, it's been hard to just relax. At all. It's also been really hard making friends since I left California."

Castiel pulls two beers from his fridge, hands one to Sam. "Really?" Castiel asks. "You're so amicable."

Sam opens the bottle on the counter. The lid flies off with a sharp pop. "I've been working so much," he answers. "Before the bombing, I was helping with purchasing agreements and some of the loopholes in personhood contracts. Now it's Dean's case, or it was, and building a case against The Enforcers of Ham."

Castiel looks at him sharply. "Is that who- who bombed us?"

"We're not sure, but their literature has been particularly radical as of late, and they've always been some of the more disruptive protestors. There are a couple of people we're looking at in particular though. It's shaky for now, but it's a little stronger every day,” he says. He takes a sip of his beer and shrugs. “Better lawyers than I have tried to take them apart, though. They’ve got money for big firms, lots of eyes and lot of power. Connections with the church will do that, though.”

“That’s terrifying,” Castiel says.

“It’s the world we live in,” Sam answers. “And we change it every day.” He’s fiddling with his beer bottle, stripping the wet label from the cold glass. “Jess...she made it all look so easy.”  
Castiel nods. “She did,” he says. “I’m so happy I could have been part of her team. I’d hate to have been part of her opposition.”

Sam chuckles. “Yeah,” he says.

He looks so pained and so sad when he smiles that way.

Castiel knows at that moment that Sam can’t be his rebound- Sam can’t be a one-night stand, Sam can’t be meaningless sex. Sam can’t be meaningless.

“You wanna watch a movie?” Castiel asks.

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

 

* * *

Gabriel and Dean come in about halfway through the third episode of Pageant Tots, which is horrifying when sober and a nightmare when drunk and pretty much the best thing they could find on television that didn’t involve heavy emotions or Julia Roberts. He and Sam are both pretty drunk by this point, so Castiel’s greeting of, “Hello, Dean,” is less shouted than it is slurred slowly and messily.

Dean looks alarmed. Gabriel looks incredulous and more than a little amused.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“We’re just,” Sam says, and burps, “a little drunk. Sorry. Hi.”

Gabriel’s not just amused, he’s laughing now. “Oh, oh honey,” he says. “Okay, come on, let’s get some water in you.” He helps Sam up from the couch and they walk wobbly from the living room to the kitchen.

“How was the strip club?” Castiel asks. “I hope you had a good time.”

Dean shrugs, and the muscles of his body move so naturally. Balletically. “It was alright. A little much. I didn’t like the way they were workin’. I didn’t uh...I didn’t like...it looked like an awful lot of trouble on my account and I didn’t want to impose so we went to a diner instead.”

Castiel wriggles across the couch to the opposite arm, closer to Dean. He rests his elbows and chin on the arm, body long and stretched slightly upward. “I’m sorry you didn’t like it more. I’m sorry we don’t get out much. I’m not real good at this, you know?” Castiel shakes his head, and it makes the room swirl a little bitty. Dizzy. “I’m not,” he yawns, “not real good at people.”

“You’re better than I am,” Dean says.

“You’ve got an excuse,” Castiel answers, turning over onto his back. “Do you want to sit on the couch for a little while?”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he does wheel over. Pulls himself onto the couch. Props his feet on the table.

“You should get your casts off soon,” Castiel says. “I bet you probably want to do that, too. When that happens, I’ll take you to a museum.”

He turns around so that he faces Dean. He’s close to his face, near to his body. He can feel his body, sense it like a phantom limb. He can feel his lips on his mouth, feel his hands on his arms, on his waist, on his hips. He looks into Dean’s eyes, bright green and beautiful.

Castiel bites his own lips and then says, “I hate sleeping alone.”

Dean looks down and then he looks back at Castiel. He blinks a couple of times. Nods. “I wasn’t allowed to sleep with anyone,” he murmurs softly. “I mean, we had sex a few times, but we didn’t share a bed. Too dangerous.”

“Did you love her?” Castiel asks. He hates himself as soon as he asks.

“I think so,” Dean answers. “He was good.”

“Is he- is he still-”

“His arm was caught in a thresher. First his blood, and then the infection set in. He died,” Dean answers.

Castiel looks away from his face, to the texture of Dean’s pant leg. “Oh,” he says.

Castiel feels something, and he looks at the couch, and Dean’s hand has wandered over to Castiel’s. His hold is gentle, reluctant. Soft.

Castiel turns his wrist and he holds Dean’s hand back. Pulls his body in a little closer and lays his head on Dean’s shoulder.

He shuts his eyes for just a moment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So before the thread implodes, this is Castiel looking for a one-night stand. This isn't romantic, this is him looking to not spend the night alone. I tried to make that clear, but just to be proactive, this is still an end-game Destiel story. Don't worry.   
> I've also edited this chapter so that what was chapter twenty-five is now the end of chapter twenty-four.


	25. Chapter 25

Castiel wakes up suddenly and sharply. He inhales like he’s been drowning and sits up. He’s got a headache. He’s a little nauseous. He probably shouldn’t have had that much to drink last night. It had been a while since he’d had anything and his limit slipped a good bit. He sits up and he suddenly sees Dean.

Dean’s clothes are rumpled, and there’s a dark spot on his t-shirt where Castiel’s probably been drooling. He’s blinking a few times. He looks as tired and worn out as Castiel feels.

Castiel’s mouth feels cottony and his head hurts so badly he’s having trouble putting together thoughts and words other than, “I think I’m going to vomit.”

He stands up from the couch and walks quickly to the bathroom. He leans over the toilet for a horrifying moment and then pukes. It’s awful, but he feels so much better for it. He flushes and brushes his teeth.

There’s a knock on the door. “You okay?” Dean asks.

Castiel looks at himself in the mirror. He looks like shit. His hair is a mess. The dark circles under his eyes are worse than usual- dark and huge. He’s peaky and pale. His clothes are wrinkled and creased.

He spits his toothpaste into the sink and rinses out his mouth. Opens the door.

Dean looks so worried. He looks halfway like he’s concerned Castiel is about to vomit all over him and halfway like he’s convinced that the other shoe is going to drop. That Castiel is about to scream at him.

“You can’t have been comfortable sleeping on that couch,” Castiel yawns. “Wanna join me?”

Dean smiles. Barely. Hardly more than an upward quirk of his mouth. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah.”

Castiel shuts off the light in his bathroom and looks at the digital clock on his nightstand. Five forty five in the morning. The sun is barely beginning to come up over the city, and the room is grey and cool with its light. Castiel unbuttons his pants and lets them fall to the floor. Strips to his undershirt. Runs his hands through his hair. “Um,” he says.

He lays down and wriggles under his mess of blankets and sheets. They’re cool and soft.

He’s alone in the bed for a long moment, and then the mattress dips and Dean lays down next to him. His body is stiff and his eyes are wide and a little nervous. His breathing is loud but it’s slow. It’s controlled and nervous.

He looks so innocent and new, lying beside Castiel. He reaches across space and pauses with his hand right near Castiel’s face. Frozen. Stiff.

Castiel leans into the touch, forehead pressing against his palm, letting Dean’s fingers rustle into his hair.

Dean sighs suddenly, deeply, and his touch moves from Castiel’s forehead along his face, down his neck. His thumb strokes against Castiel’s jawline. It is tender, and it makes him sore in the parts of him that are feeling. It’s dear.

Castiel whimpers at the touch. He reaches forward and he rest his own hand on Dean’s waist. He closes his eyes once more and he feels safe.

* * *

 

Castiel’s bedroom is cool and grey. The colors are light and neutral. His sheets are grey, his blanket is dark blue, not the bright blue of his eyes. His hair is dark and soft under his hands. He’s so beautiful as he shuts his eyes slowly, cheeks flushed and mouth slack and pink. His hand is a warm weight on his hip. His body is as comfortingly near and warm and close as it was on the couch.

There is nothing urgent like there was when he slept with Adam. Everything is slow and lazy and safe. The lights are low, the room is comfortable. There is no itch of lice or dirt, only softness. There is no sting from the whip or the prod.

It is the safest Dean has ever remembered feeling, and it pulls up something new inside of him. Something to the smell of the sheets and the warmth of someone’s body. Something like a song he can’t remember, a tune he can’t recall.

Something inside of the words Gabriel said to him-

_Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders._

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

Castiel wakes up a couple of hours later and he watches Dean sleep on, fascinated.

Dean’s eyes are closed, the blonde fringe of his eyelashes close to his cheeks. His brow is uncreased and his expression is peaceful. He looks years younger with his jaw unclenched and mouth slack. His hair is mussed and his body is loose where it’s curled close and safe to Castiel. His arm is draped across Castiel’s torso, his leg is heavy on top of his own legs, his casts awkward. He’s so lovely like this, though. Like this, it looks like his damage isn’t even there. He just looks like this guy, this painfully beautiful, normal guy.

Castiel leans forward and rests his forehead on Dean’s, noses nuzzling. Catlike. Dean groans a little and sighs, nudging forward a little himself. Vulnerable and sweet.

* * *

 

Everything is on fire, suddenly. He’s in the house and everything’s on fire and it’s all burning, burning up. He’s watching the woman burning up above him and then there’s that weight in his arms again. A man’s gruff voice saying something he can’t quite understand. There’s the roar of the fire all around, crackling and licking and that kind of indefinable phantom pain on all of his body. Too hot, too heavy. Snapping and sharp and then-

A strong hand on his shoulder, cool and firm. Pulling. Tugging. Dragging.

Dean blinks open, and Casitel’s bright blue eyes are looking right into him.

“You were having a bad dream,” Castiel says.

Dean nods a couple of times. “It happens,” he says. He’s stiff from laying on his side for so long, but Castiel’s gaze has him spellbound. “I’m okay.”

“Is it a dream you have often? Is it recurrent?” Castiel asks. His voice is low and deep.

“Every once in a while,” he answers. “I mean, I get it every couple of weeks. It don’t bother me none, it’s just a thing that happens.”

Castiel frowns. “Do you think you could tell me about it?” He asks. “I understand if you don’t want to.”

“I,” Dean answers. “Not right now. Not today. I want to- I just want to pretend to be normal, just for today.”

Castiel bites his lip and he looks away for a moment. He nods. He leans forward slowly, carefully, and he kisses Dean.

His lips and hands are soft. Everything to Adam’s body had always been chapped and rough. His kiss is gentle, too. Adam had been seriously and sudden and fast- everything to them had been serious and sudden. Castiel’s touches and kisses are like slow burning coals in a midnight fire. They are steady and beautiful, they are relaxed and unhurried, they are normal and undamaged.

They’re undamaged.

“I need to get some water,” Castiel says, pulling away. “Otherwise this headache will

never quit.”

Dean’s mouth quirks upward and he nods. “Okay,” he says. He feels lazy and heavy and sleepy still. It’s a nice feeling. “You’re pretty,” he mutters. “Like...like the buds on orange trees or light in colored glass.”

Castiel turns over onto his back and hides his eyes in the crook of his arm. “No I’m not,” he says. “I’m just this guy.”

Dean smiles and sits up.

Doesn’t say, _no you’re not, you’re my angel_. Says, “Can you help me call a doctor today? I’m dying to get out of these casts.”

 


	27. Chapter 27

Castiel doesn’t know how to explain what happened last night, or what’s happening now. He doesn’t know how to talk about it or ask Dean about it.

He knows that Dean isn’t his boyfriend, and he knows that Dean isn’t simply some kind of one-night stand. Something’s changed irrevocably between the two of them, and he’s not sure that’s good or bad yet.

Dean’s on the phone right now, painstakingly reading numbers off of an insurance card to a freedmen friendly clinic. His voice is careful and steady and his brow is creased in effort. He’s been on the phone for nearly fifteen minutes, listening to the other end carefully and asking questions. He’s thorough and concise.

When he finally hangs up, he smiles a little sheepishly and says, “I have an appointment tomorrow at noon. Do you think you or someone could help me get there? I- uh,” he swallows, “I don’t think I’m much for public transportation.”

Castiel nods. “I’ll talk to Gabriel or Sam. I’ve got to head into the office tomorrow and actually meet my new boss,” he answers.

Dean blushes a little and nods. “Thank you,” he says. “I know it must be difficult to have someone who needs so much...help.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It really isn’t- Dean, you’re not a burden,” he says.

Dean nods and turns away. Wheels towards the kitchen and calls back, “Can you help me reach the pans and eggs? I’d like to try making breakfast.”

* * *

 

Sam winds up being the only person available to take Dean to the doctor, and he sounds more than glad to be able to do it. Dean’s still nervous, though. He knows that Sam is on his side, but he doesn’t quite see the motivation. He doesn’t understand why Sam would want to help him or want to talk to him or want to take him to the doctor. There are holes. There’s danger he can’t quite put his finger on.

Sam pulls up in a long black car. It’s huge- it’s big and mean. It looks like something that would have escaped from Hell, like the devil’s chariot.

Dean _loves_ it immediately.

“Let me help you in,” he says, holding the wheel chair while Dean pulls himself into the passenger seat. Sam folds the wheelchair and tosses it in the back.

He sits in the driver’s side next to Dean, the radio playing low. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late,” he says as they pull out into traffic.

“Thank you for taking me,” he answers. “I don’t think I’m cut out for trains yet.”

Sam nods. Licks his lips and says, “So it’s true.”

“What’s true?” Dean asks.

“That they pack you into cattle cars,” he replies. “To move you from plantation to plantation.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Yeah. All the time. This one time, in the summer, they were shipping us from a tomato farm to a cattle ranch and I almost died. I started vomiting and then I got the flux and if the train hadn’t stopped when it did, I would have died there. Adam kept pushing fluids to me.”

Sam turns from a main road onto a quieter sidestreet, full of trees and houses. A place Castiel has told him is called the suburbs. “Who’s Adam?” Sam asks.

“He was a slave, too,” Dean answers. “He was a good man.” He watches the green of the trees flood by him and the paved sidewalks slip by, too. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Sam answers.

“Why do you care?”

Sam frowns and looks at Dean briefly. Sam has a thoughtful face, and when he smiles it’s bright but when he’s sad or upset it’s clouded like no other face Dean has ever seen. It makes Dean want to pull Sam into somewhere safe and take care of him.

Dean always tried to take care of the kids on the farms. He tried to make sure they ate and drank. He would help them with their work when they fell down in the rows of cotton, he would catch them when they fell from the trees with exhaustion. Took blame for them, took whips for them.

Sam’s not a seven year old, though, and he’s a lot more competent than Dean is.

Dean’s not in much of a position to be taking care of anyone, but it still stings when he sees that he’s so clearly hurt Sam.

“Because you’re a person,” he answers.

Sam turns again, and the street becomes a little wider, a little more residential.

“I grew up in Kansas,” he says, “in a free county. There was a plantation just on the other side of the county line and we saw slaves. We saw a lot of them. And I grew up knowing that what happened on the other side of that fence was wrong, that it was evil. That it had nearly been me.”

Dean frowns and looks at Sam. Tall and clean, with dark hair and bright eyes. Sharp features.

“My family died in a fire,” he continues. “in a slaving county. I got- I am so lucky that I didn’t wind up in the fields. And I hate that,” he pauses for a long moment. “I had a brother. And I’ve always wondered.” He laughs. "I'm not really that selfless, I guess."

They don’t say anything the rest of the drive to the doctor’s office.

The office is small and quiet. It looks like a house, actually, with a small fence around a tiny yard and wisteria growing over the door. Sam pulls the wheelchair out of the backseat and holds the door open for Dean. They head into the doctor’s office and Sam helps him sign in.

Dean sits in the waiting room and he’s horribly nervous. He jiggles his knee up and down, waiting. Not quite sure what he’s even waiting for.

“You okay?” Sam asks after about fifteen minutes.

“Yeah,” Dean snaps back. “Fine.”

Sam raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. Pulls out a file folder and starts reading.

“Dean?” A nurse calls. “Doctor Mosely is ready for you now.”

 


	28. Chapter 28

Castiel comes into their temporary office space for the second time.He sits at the temporary desk and squints his way through some papers and files when a woman comes into the room.   
“Hi,” she says. “You must be Novak.”  
“Castiel,” he introduces. “Please. You must be Ms. Barnes.”  
“Pamela,” she corrects, smiling. She has dark hair and a mischievous face. She looks like trouble. Beautiful in a vulpine kind of way. “So you’re our numbers guy, eh?”  
Castiel nods. “Yes,” he answers. “Actually I wanted to ask you about what our priorities are for the coming months. We need to start rebuilding the facility but I also know that top priority involves freeing projects.”  
“I want the hospital rebuilt,” she says. “No exceptions. We can run admin out of here for as long as we need to. Hospitals mean that pregnant escapees come to us and have their children in free territory. That’s the number one goal.”  
Castiel looks at her and smiles. Pushes a file folder towards her. “This is what we need to do for fundraising and this is what you need to take to the board. You’re also going to want to cut my pay.”  
Pamela shakes her head. “No I’m not,” she answers. “You’re alright, Novak.” She sashays out of the office. Perfunctory.   
Castiel blinks a couple of times and starts looking further at his paperwork.

* * *

His apartment smells delicious when he gets home. It smells warm and fresh, like bread and sauce. There are herbal notes, too. Basil and rosemary and parsley. So good.  
Castiel walks into his kitchen and he’s amazed.   
Sam and Dean stand at the counters, chopping and cooking. They’re talking to each other and laughing and they look so happy. It’s been so long since Castiel’s seen Dean standing, and it’s a little jarring to see him up at the counter. He’s tall, an inch or two taller than Castiel is. Sam still practically towers over him. He’s leaning against the counter a little heavily, but he’s up.  
“You’re out of your casts!” Castiel cries in surprise.  
Dean turns to look at him and grins. “Yeah,” he answers. “Dr. Mosley told me to take it easy for a few days but that I’m all healed up. She also tells me I shouldn’t be jogging any time soon.”  
Castiel leans forward and looks at what they’re cooking. There’s a pot on the stove full of water and a pan that’s bubbling with garlic and oil. A mess of herbs are bright and green on their cutting board.   
“An adaptation of Aglio e Olio,” Sam says. “Good cheap food if you’ve got a lot of garlic, which you do.”  
Dean smiles as Castiel’s hand wraps around his hip, a little gently. “How was the new boss?”  
“Sam was right, I liked her,” he replies. “I think we’re going to be okay in the long run. It’s a little scary, still. The bombing took out resources we couldn’t afford to really lose. Pamela seems to get that, though.”  
Sam smiles. “Yeah, Pam’s great. Now get out of your kitchen, dude, you’re in the way.”

* * *

Dean’s in a bedroom. He’s in a twin bed that stretches out huge in front of his short legs, his body is small. He’s cocooned and safe under his blanket. He is holding onto a teddy bear.  
He’s safe until the bedroom becomes hard to breathe in. It’s smokey, smoggy.  
Dean then remembers the rest of the dream.  
There’s a tall man shouting at him to leave his room. There’s the fire. There’s the incredible weight in his arms, but it suddenly becomes warm and solid. He looks down at it, and the bundle in his arms is-  
The bundle in his arms is Sam Winchester, that lawyer. All six feet four of him is contained in Dean’s arms, at once huge and tiny. Gigantic and vulnerable.  
“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam says.  
Dean clutches Sam and runs out of the fire, out of the house and into the cold.  
He wakes up panting and terrified.   
Castiel is sleepy beside him, blinking. “Dean?” he asks. His voice is scratchy and hoarse. “What happened? Are you okay?”  
Dean nods in the dark, as if to shake the dream out of his brain. “Just a dream,” he answers. “I’m okay.”  
Castiel moans long and deep. He throws his arm over Dean’s body and his leg over Dean’s hip. Warm and real. More real than the bundle in his arms had been.   
He turns over into Castiel’s space and kisses him on the cheek.  
Castiel hums happily and then he shifts slightly to kiss Dean’s mouth. His kiss is sloppy and sleepy, but it’s beautiful. Dean kisses him back, although with slightly less tongue.   
“Mm,” Castiel moans. “So good.”   
He sighs and snuggles and little deeper into Dean’s side.   
Dean holds him tightly in response.   
He can’t figure out why he suddenly feels so guilty about the bundle in his dream.


	29. Chapter 29

It’s strange having Dean up and about and standing. It’s strange having him be so physical all of a sudden.

He’s put on weight since he’s been freed. His frame is no longer so wiry or so skeletal. It is almost stocky. There is a thickness to his thighs and his shoulders that’s refreshing and new, but it’s clear from the way Dean moves through space that he’s not used to it. The way he occasionally knocks something over or the way his clothes strain against him. Sam bought him some free weights and while he’s in tutoring he does bicep curls and squats. Gabriel’s encouraged it- he says that working out helped him wire his brain into thinking himself and Dean picks things up a lot faster when he’s active. He’s steadily becoming built like a tank and it’s tempting and strange.

It’s a health thing, too, the weights. Former slaves are at a higher risk for diabetes and heart disease and obesity. A body put through stress that long, it doesn’t learn to let go of food. It learns to hide it in fat when the winter comes or when masters change and things aren’t so cruel.

Dean’s not fat, he’s muscular and fit, but his belly has grown and it pooches forward a little bit.

His head is tilted forward in concentration as he watches Castiel drape eggs into hot oil. His gaze is intense, like everything he does is intense. It’s like everything is somehow precious, a treasure in a way Castiel can’t quite see. He looks at the scrambled eggs this way. He looks at the sink this way. He looks at Castiel this way.

“So we do the scrambled egg before we do anything else because otherwise I forget,” he says. “And then there’s no protein in the fried rice and I pass out at work.”

Dean laughs softly. “Is that why you’re home early?”

Castiel blushes a little and nods. “It happens sometimes. I had protein bars in my old desk but now that...complex is gone,” he answers. “Balthazar was released yesterday.”

“He’s your friend,” Dean says slowly. “The one who does the same thing you do- the counting.”

“Yeah,” Castiel answers, stirring the eggs, breaking up the curds. “He’s apparently sustained some brain damage. It’s...rough.  He probably won’t come back to the office.”

Dean turns as the timer for the rice goes off, looking at the source of the noise. He pulls the pan off of the heat, ignoring the hot handle on the pan. He doesn’t use mitts unless he’s actually going into the oven. His callouses are insane.

The steam plumes around Dean like a halo as he opens the pot, and he feels the sudden urge to grab Dean’s shoulders and kiss him.

He just swallows dryly and pulls the eggs from the heat instead.

Dean gently reaches over and rests his hand over Castiel’s. Light and barely there.

Castiel looks up at him, into his eyes.

He switches off all of the eyes on the stove rapidly, and then he leans forward and kisses Dean like he means it. This isn’t sleepy or drunk, it’s sober and electric and alive.

Dean makes a happy, sweet sound and he wraps his arms over Castiel’s body, bringing his hips near and his back and shoulders up. Castiel feels like he’s levitating in Dean’s grasp and Dean has to bend down and over to kiss into Castiel’s mouth.

Dean pulls off and he looks terrified. “I’m- did I cross a line? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do anything.”

“Dean,” Castiel sighs softly, and he realizes for the first time that, shit, this _is_ love. 

Dean’s expression changes and his hand moves to cradle Castiel’s face. “You’re,” he says with a voice full of wonder, “you’re an angel.”

Castiel feels overwhelmed suddenly. “Oh god,” he says and he touches Dean.

He’s finding himself crying and he fists his hands into Dean’s shirt. It’s more than crying it’s sobbing. It’s deep and furious sobbing, it’s a hurt all the way down to the bones.

“Dean, you can’t- you can’t- you’re so- why are you so good?” he demands. “Why are you so good?”

He cries and cries and Dean holds him, because for whatever reason, all the work in the fields, the slavery-

All it did was make Dean good.

 


	30. Chapter 30

Sam comes over once or twice a week for dinner. He brings groceries and his Irish Setter. He brings a six pack for them and a treats for his dog. He rolls up his sleeves and stands at the counter. He bitches about people at the office and chops lettuce and laughs brightly and merrily.

It’s weird how right Sam and Dean look next to each other. Dean is a little too short and Sam is a little too tall. Dean’s hair is shorn short and close. Sam’s is long and dark- shaggy. They smile similarly, though. This weirdly sunny thing, with bright little dimples. They laugh the same way.

Castiel likes to be quiet near them and he likes to watch them. He feels like a third wheel around them sometimes, but then Dean looks over at him and smiles a little playfully.

Somehow, Sam and Dean are some kind of matched set that have found each other and watching them give each other hell and nudge each other makes it clearer and clearer.

They’re eating one night (something Sam calls ‘shawarma’ but Dean calls ‘amazing’) and Dean says, “I think I need to go to Kansas.”

Sam drops his fork and turns to look at Dean.

“Are you-are you sure?” he asks. He looks visibly shaken.

“Whatever’s not in that file,” Dean says, staring at the tablecloth, “is in Kansas. It’s in that L-Lawrence place. And I’ve got to go.”

Castiel feels something jittering start in his body that he can’t control. “Dean-” he gasps.

“I’ve talked to Gabriel,” he says. “And if you can’t get there, or if you don’t want to go he can and will. I can’t go alone. And I can’t not know. And if what you said was true about my case, about the file, this has to happen.”

Dean looks up from the table closes his eyes.

“I’ve got to find proof,” he says, “and I have to find out who I am.”

Dean has trouble finding eye contact when he’s in high conflict. When he makes decisions, he does it staring at the floor or with his eyes shut firmly. When he disagrees, he watches his shoes acutely.

Castiel can’t quite fathom how hard this is for Dean, or how brave he’s having to be in this situation.  

Lawrence is the buying and selling hub for the state of Kansas. It’s the auction block in the city times ten. It’s an auction block the size of the whole city. It’s a disaster zone, and it’s a place that won’t respect the sanctity of freed men. Ground zero.

The thought makes Castiel shake terribly. He puts down his own fork and he nods. “I don’t know if the office will let me go long enough to really do anything,” he says. “I’ll talk to Pamela in the morning, though, and I’ll- I’ll make arrangements immediately.”

Sam swallows. “May I come with you?”  
Dean nods.

They finish the meal in silence.

The enormity of the thing sits in the dining room like a tiger.

They’re about to enter hell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is short you guys.


	31. Chapter 31

Even in the free counties, Kansas is nothing but flat fields as far at the eye can see.

Sam’s dark car navigates the dark highways. They travel by night. They stick to free counties. Inconspicuous. Quiet. Even in the free counties, traveling with a freed slave attracts attention. Even though Dean’s not in chains, even though Dean stands tall, there’s something to their gaze that sees the chains. Something to the grey, angry eyes of motel owners and waitresses.

There’s no neutral party in Kansas, but it’s easier to pretend everything’s normal when you check in at four am and leave at ten at night.

Sam drives. Dean sits in the passenger seat. Castiel stays in the back. They listen to old classic rock tapes and drink bitter coffee, overbrewed from gas stations.

They make slow progress across the state, staying away from plantations and slaving counties. They could make the drive in about two days if they went through slaving counties. They all know that’s not an option, though.

Castiel knows they enter the slaving counties. How could he miss it- there’s the fence and the guards in navy uniforms, looking inward.

Dean’s jaw tightens. He looks forward. He looks like a steel girder, tight and serious. Strong and unbending.

They stop at a motel in a small town. None of them say anything as they sit in the small room, old furniture and yellow carpet. Peeling wallpaper and the smell of cigarette smoke.

“I’m gonna go find some food,” Sam says and he leaves.

Dean and Castiel are left alone together in this small, dirty room. Castiel locks the door behind Sam and Dean begins to unbutton his plaid shirt.

“Angel, I’m so scared,” Dean says as he walks to Castiel. “I don’t know what’s going to happen and I’m so scared.”

Castiel grabs him and kisses him furiously and passionately. “I know,” he says. “I know. I don’t know what to do and I don’t know what’s going to happen.” His words are blurred and gasped as they kiss and touch furiously and deeply.

This has been part of traveling, too. They spend all day in the car wound so tightly and so scared. Painfully frightened and itching with anxiety.

Touching and kissing and holding each other helps, though, and it makes sure that they sleep at night when they’re curled up next to each other.

Sam doesn’t ask questions and they don’t answer them either.

“What if they take me back?” Dean asks. “What if they try to buy me? What if they buy me and send me back?” His lips are soft against Castiel’s cheeks.

“Won’t- won’t let them,” Castiel answers as Dean’s hands find his waistband. “Wild horses couldn’t tear me away.”

Dean huffs a sharp sigh against Castiel’s skin. His arms are so strong.

The door rattles a little and they freeze.

“Bathroom,” Castiel breathes, and they shuffle messily from the room into the small bathroom, standing in the shower together.

“Forgot my keys,” Sam announces, and the door slams shut again.

Castiel smooths Dean’s hair away from his face to look at him. Castiel is panting- almost hyperventilating. “I love you,” he says suddenly. “Dean, I love you so much.”

Dean inhales and he exhales.

He hugs Castiel. No kissing. No more frantic tearing of clothes. Just this tight and close hug, suffocatingly dear.

He can’t say anything- he can’t say that he loves Castiel back, but his touch is answer enough.

They leave the bathroom soon enough. They eat dinner and they lay down in their bed. Their fingers are intertwined, their eyes watching each other.

Tomorrow, they go into the purchasing office for the largest auction block in the largest slave holding state with one badge and three thrift store suits.

 


	32. Chapter 32

Dean's jaw is locked and it stays that way the whole morning. None of them eat much at breakfast, and none of them say much as they file back into the car.

"Look like you belong there," Sam says, "because we do. It's a public institution with public records. They're going to try and hassle us and they're going to threaten to throw us out. They can't. They're going to have muscle. They can't use it. Don't answer questions, just ask them."

The ground around the auction block is barren and blasted. There isn't grass, jut gray dust and low concrete buildings. There are rows and rows of fences and check points .

They don't see anyone but guards.

"They keep us in holding containers," Dean says. It's the first thing he's said all day.

The pull into a parking lot in front of another low concrete building and climb out.

Their suits are cheap and dark. They fit strangely. Dean in particular looks strange- his face is serious and set. He’s never really looked like this before. He looks like a thunderstorm, something like barely contained fury written all over him. The stiff way he’s holding his shoulders. The clench to his jaw.

He looks out at the rows of fences, the containers full of slaves, the grassless earth, the whole blasted horror of it all and he says, “Let’s go.”

Sam and Castiel follow him inside.

Dean approaches the purchasing counter authoritatively. He pulls out his wallet and yanks out a fake business card- something Sam’s office sent them off with. “John Paul Jones,” he murmurs lowly. “I’m here to look at your records, specifically purchasing details for minors from the sessions 0883 to 0884. The two idiots behind me came earlier in the week and looked at record for 0885 to six.” He rolls his eyes.

The clerk behind the counter raises an eyebrow.

"My client is transporting a block of property that was initially purchased at this auction house in the purchasing season I listed to you. We're checking on some of your paperwork because what we've been getting the past few weeks has been sloppy and if my client transports through free counties, he wants immunity, airtight immunity, and if I can’t look at these public records, I can’t guarantee that, Mr.-” Dean pauses and looks at the namebadge on the man’s shirt- “Mr. Steve.”

The clerk looked at his papers on his desk. He looked back at Dean. He looked at Sam and Castiel. Sam smiled a little, perfunctorily.

The clerk pulled three cards from a drawer in his desk and slid them over the counter to Dean. “There’s a copy machine at the end of the hall, please go through the doors on the left hand side, records are labeled on the doors by purchasing period. Have a lovely day, Mr. Jones, our offices close at five.”

Dean doesn’tt turn around and he doesn’’t say anything to Cas and Sam, he just walks on, through the doors. He doesn’t say anything until he finds the right room and swipes in and Sam and Cas follow him, and then he nearly collapses.

“You’re amazing,” Castiel says.

“Gabriel and I have been talking about this for a while,” he answers.

“Okay,” Sam says, looking at all of the files. “We’re looking for anything weird. Blacked out names, wrong dates. And we’re looking for your name. Let’s go.”

He pulls a box down from a shelf, the one on the far left. He sits down on the floor, pulls out an envelope and starts reading.

Cas and Dean follow suit.

* * *

 

They’re there in the files for about four hours before Dean says, “There’s a bunch of purchases in the 0583 block with the initial supplier name blocked out.”

Sam and Castiel both look at him, necks sore from looking at the files so long.

“What?” Sam says.

“The initial supplier is gone. The information for the farm is gone and there aren’t any-” He inhales suddenly, shaking.

Castiel looks down and he sees it. He sees it and then he realizes what it is- he really realizes it.

Dean’s found his file.

His breath stutters out suddenly and horribly. It’s shaking and horrified.

“Make it go away,” he says. “Make it go away. Make it gone.”

Castiel tears the file out of Dean’s hands and gives it to Sam. He holds Dean’s arms tight and looks at him in the eyes. “Deep breaths,” he says. “Deep breaths, Dean, deep breaths.”

“Dean,” Sam says. “Dean, this is different.”

“Not right now, Sam,” Casitel says, trying to pull Dean out of the panic attack.

“The file has an earlier purchaser than the auction house,” Sam says. “Someone called Azazel or something-”

“Please make the fire go away,” Dean whimpers.

“Sam, copy the file,” Castiel says. “I’m taking Dean back to the hotel.”

 


	33. Chapter 33

Sam drives a little too fast on the way back to the hotel. In the backseat, Castiel holds Dean’s hand and tries to say the right things, but Dean is shocked way back into some place in his head. He’s white as a sheet and sweating.

“Please make the fire go away,” he says again.

‘I’m trying, baby, I’m trying,” Castiel says.

“So heavy, Daddy,” Dean says.

Castiel has no idea what he’s talking about. This has never happened before. This is painful and new. “I know, Dean,” Castiel says. “I know.” He doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know what else to do.

When they get to the hotel room, Castiel pushes Dean into a chair, and Dean, he just keeps staring off into space. Castiel looks at him for a long time, and then Dean says, “Daddy, he’s so heavy. I’m gonna drop him.”

Sam looks at the two of them for a long time and then backs out of the room. Murmurs something about finding a takeout place.

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, “Dean, are you okay?”

“Fire,” Dean says. “Fire.”

Castiel sits on the floor next to Dean and holds his hand while Dean stares off into space and is divorced from his senses. They stay that way for a long time, and then Castiel gets up.

“Hey, Dean,” he murmurs, “Dean, can you come lay down on the bed for me?” He tugs him out of the chair and lays him in the bed. Turns off the light and turns on the bedside lamp. It feels homey all of the sudden.

Castiel curls up next to Dean on the bed and lays his head over Dean’s heart. He traces little swirls onto Dean’s chest. He hums softly. He tries to make Dean feel safe until he snaps out of whatever’s happening.

It takes a long, long time until Dean says, “Castiel?”

Castiel shifts and looks at Dean. “Hello, Dean,” he answers.

“What happened?” He asks.

“You found your file,” he says.

“Oh,” he whispers. “Is everything okay?”

“You tell me,” Castiel says.

Dean sits up and runs his hands through his hair. “I don’t remember anything,” he says. “We were there and now we’re here. There’s a gap.”

Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand, and Dean squeezes back.

“Sam found something,” Castiel says. “A name in the files. Not just- not just yours, either, in a bunch of files from the same period. He’s thinking Azazel- the name in the files- he’s thinking this is the link to who you are.”

Dean seems to waver a little where he’s laying in the bed. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he says.

Castiel nods. “Say the word and we’ll go,” he answers.

“I know,” Dean replies.

Sam opens the door with a couple of bags full of food. “Hey, good, you’re up,” he says. “I was beginning to worry. I hope you don’t mind sweet and sour by the way, because I’m laying claim to the beef with broccoli.”

Dean smiles. “Sounds great,” he says. “Apparently you found a name?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, unpacking the bags. “So get this- the purchasing records for that period, the initial purchaser is always blocked out but there’s one between the auction house and that marker- a name. Azazel. I went back and looked at some of the other files and it happens over and over again. If we find Azazel, I think we find- I think we find you.” He hand Dean a container and a pair of chopsticks. Castiel gets soup and a spoon. “I don’t know how we’d find Azazel, though.”

Dean opens his container and takes a couple of bites. The first few are always a little wolfish, like he hasn’t quite learned that he’s free deep down. “This is good,” he says, pointing into the container with his chopsticks. “Heavy, though.”

Castiel smiles at him a little. Dean picked up chopsticks pretty quickly when Castiel made fried rice one night. They’re second nature now, though, and it makes Castiel happy to see Dean have a handle on something.

“Where do we start with finding that guy?” he asks with his mouth full.

“As soon as I get wifi, I’m going to start doing some googling. It’s not a hot lead by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s,” Sam sighs, “it’s a start.”

They finish eating quietly, and then Sam yawns. “Think I’m gonna take a shower,” he says. “I think we got everything we’re going to get out of the purchasing office and I think we can get out of Lawrence pretty soon.”

“Thank god,” Dean murmurs.

Sam shuts the bathroom door behind himself and Castiel and Dean look at each other.

They take off each other’s clothing and fall asleep before Sam even comes out.

It had been a long day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you guys, so I head back to school on Friday, which means that updates are probably going to be a lot more sparse from now on. I'd like to get it finished to my satisfaction before then, but I just don't know if that's possible.


	34. Chapter 34

Sam spends all day on the computer, tearing through information, and Dean and Castiel spend all day inside.

They tried going out to grab something to eat and get some fresh air, but every inch of Lawrence is haunted by the block. Mothers hold their children’s hands a little too tightly, and the streets are empty. People don’t go out. People don’t really seem to live here at all. They come into Lawrence for business, but they don’t stick around. Lots of tattoo parlors with outdoor lots. Lots of custom metal workers with long lines of half-naked men along the sidewalk.

There’s no escaping the industry that’s built this city and there’s no ignoring it and there’s no aspect of it that doesn’t trigger a panic response in Dean, so they stay inside.

Sam says at about two that afternoon, “So there was a string of arsons in the eighties.”

Dean and Castiel continue playing cards. Sam sometimes talks to himself as he’s working, has conversations with the air. If he wants something, he’ll repeat it or preface it with a name, but usually he’s just talking to sort out his own thoughts.

“There were all these houses that burned down- large families, too. Two kids minimum but some with as many as four kids under the age of seven. That was the guy’s target- big families,” he continues.

Dean and Castiel have paused, listening.

“Everyone would die in the fires. He was caught a few years back in Missouri by a couple of hunters who caught him breaking into their cabin,” he continues. “Hey, uh, Dean,” Sam continues.

“Yeah?” Dean answers, raising an eyebrow. He’s looking intently at his cards.

“What happened yesterday,” he continues, “do you remember any of that?”

Dean shakes his head.

“You were talking about a fire,” Castiel says, his voice almost hushed.

Sam clears his throat. “A fire?”

“I have a dream sometimes,” Dean says, looking at his cards. “There’s a fire and I have to carry something. A big guy yells at me, there’s a woman on the ceiling. It’s a weird dream. Everyone has weird dreams.”

Castiel looks from Dean, fascinated with his cards, to Sam, who is staring at Dean and looking shocked. Hyperventilating a little.

Like he’s seen a ghost.

“Sam?” Castiel asks softly.

Sam starts to shake his head slowly and then a little faster. He makes a strange noise, almost strangled and then he gets up, shaking. He stands, staring at Dean.

“Sam?” Castiel repeats.

Sam walks out of the room and he leaves the door open behind him.

Dean looks up at Castiel, frowning, and then the two of them race from the bed to the computer.

The information on the computer- there’s so much of it. There’s so much of it, and it’s all so strange, but the page- the page that’s really strange is a newspaper clipping.

“Winchester Arson,” it reads.

“Sam Winchester (infant)” only survivor, it reads.

“John, Mary, and Dean” victims, it reads.

“The inferno was so intense, we could not locate the body of the four year old,” it reads.

There’s a photo of all four of them at the bottom. A woman with blonde hair and a deep smile. A grim looking man with steely eyes. A baby in a blanket. A little boy, four years old. Blonde hair, freckles, green eyes.

“Mary, John, Sam, and Dean Winchester,” is the caption.

Castiel looks from the computer screen to Dean, and he puts it together long after Dean has.

Pale and shaking, Dean runs out of the door after Sam.

After his _little brother._

 


	35. Chapter 35

Whatever this is, it’s not real.

Things like this don’t happen. People don’t just get freed, no problems. People don’t just fall in love, no problems. People don’t find out that their friend-

Probably their best friend is their long-lost little brother.

The only thing Dean knows at this point is that he’s got to find him and he’s got to- shit, he’s got to do something.

He doesn’t have to run far, just down the road apace. Flat lawn all around before high fences begin. Sam is almost dwarfed by the twenty foot fence, but he’s still too damn tall to be real.

There’s no way Sam is real.

It looks like Sam is thinking the same thing. On the ground, there’s a big yellow puddle of vomit. He looks pale. He’s sweating. His hair is pulled too tightly away from his face, as if he can’t stop pulling it. He’s shaking. His eyes are too wide. He looks too big and too small all at once.

Sam opens his mouth and makes some wordless sound. He looks like he’s in physical pain.

“It’s not,” Dean says. “It can’t be real. This can’t be real.”

“The fire,” Sam says. It’s the first thing he’s managed to say.

The fire- the dream comes back to Dean unbidden. Heat all around. Red and orange and black. So much smoke.

The tall man with dark hair and steely eyes hands him the bundle and that’s a person. The bundle is a person, a tiny person. Baby Sammy, something deep down inside of Dean supplies.

Dean shakes his head. “It’s not real,” he says. “It can’t be real.” He closes his eyes and looks upward, the sun shining into his shut eyelids. “This isn’t my life. This isn’t my life.”

“Dean-”

Dean opens his eyes and shouts, “This isn’t my life, this doesn’t happen. This doesn’t- dammit, Sammy-”

And the word breaks inside of his throat in just that way and he can’t- he can’t-

Sam pulls him into a hug, suddenly. His arms are strong and there’s something crushing to it. Dean can’t breathe. He’s feeling and he can’t breathe and he can’t feel this, he can’t.

“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t. I can’t have been- I can’t have been normal.” He pulls away from Sam and turns away. He just wants to hit something. Kicks the earth and drags up a plume of dust. Turns around and screams, “I could have been normal. I could have been normal, I could have been normal, I could have been normal!”

He pulls at his own hair, jerks back around. “I could have been normal. I could have had some fucking- some fucking life with parents and girlfriends and boyfriends and a house and my own room. I could have owned things, I could have memories, I could have a name. Nothing-” His voice breaks again. “Nothing.”

He sits down in the grass and sticks his head between his knees. He feels like he did when he caught the flux, like everything inside of him is in tight knots. He can’t stop twitching and shaking. He can’t move. He’s both full of tight energy and so tired. Dean’s never felt this tired in his life, not even after the three days he worked picking greens in California.

“Nothing,” he repeats.

Sam sits down next to him. He smells like sweat and vomit.

He looks so strange, suddenly. He looks so much younger. He looks so damn sorry. There’s a set to his jaw and way he’s holding his head, forward and down. Something inside the slope from his shoulders down as he drapes his long arms over his upright knees.

“I didn’t even get,” Dean says, “I don’t have- there’s nothing. There’s nothing.”

“I thought you were dead,” Sam says softly. “If I’d known, I would have...if I’d known.”

“That wasn’t your job,” Dean answers. “You couldn’t have known, you were...you were so small.” He frowns, remembering. “You were so small. You weighed a goddamn ton, but you were so small.” He laughs, no humor. “I was so scared.” He sighs heavily, fighting the tears. “I’ve been scared since I could remember that I would drop you.”

It suddenly feels like he’s put something down. Like something has slipped from his incredibly heavy shoulders.

Sam hugs him again, and Dean holds on to his little brother as tight as he dares.

 


	36. Chapter 36

Castiel sits in the hotel room for a long moment, and then he looks from the door back to the computer screen. 

 

Dean looks so different as a child. He's not only unscarred, he looks lighter. Innocent. He looks happy with the woman who must be his mother and the man who must be his father. Strange to see all of them and see all of their features- to see Dean's smile on another person, to see Sam's determination on a young father. 

 

Castiel shuts the laptop and leaves the room, grabbing his keys and locking the door behind himself. 

 

He doesn't have to drive far before he sees them. They're sitting at the side of the road, near each other. They both still look shocked and pale but they're talking to each other. 

 

They look different contextualized against each other. Dean looks a little taller, Sam looks a little younger. It's hard not to see the similarities in their features now. 

 

Castiel opens the door to the car and says, "Get in. Side of the road doesn't seem like the right place to have this kind of conversation."

 

They climb into the backseat and Sam says, "We need to check out and go see my mom." He  clears his throat. "She knew m- our parents."

 

* * *

 

Ellen Harvelle is a sensible woman who runs a tight ship. It's what makes her a great teacher- she's organized and authoritative. She could have gone into the military and done well if she wanted to. 

 

She doesn't love Kansas, but this house is where she raised her son and daughter. This house is where she buried her husband. This house is her home, and she can't think of leaving it now. 

 

Sam calls her at about noon to let her know he's coming by with a couple of people for a visit, and she knows something is wrong. 

 

Ellen Harvelle is a sensible woman, and it's not every day that she sees the dead raise again. 

 

Sam and another guy get out of the car that had been John Winchester's, and then the spitting  (if masculine) image of Mary Winchester climbs out of the backseat. 

 

She drops her beer. The glass shatters. 

 

"Uh," Sam says, "Mom, this is Dean."

 

Ellen remembers John and Mary's first son. Sweet little boy. Clingy and quiet. Protective of everyone in his family. 

 

She remembers his funeral, too. 

 

Whole lotta ghosts coming out of that car. 

 

"We thought...we thought you were dead," she says, regaining some composure. 

 

"Um," Dean answers, and his voice is gruff and low, "yeah, I thought so, too." He blushes a little. "I mean- that is- I didn't know. I'm suh-sorry."

 

"Oh, baby," Ellen says, and when she hugs him, he's just like she remembers. He hugs back and holds on and leaves her sleeves a little damp. "You ain't got nothing to be sorry for. Come inside, I got a lifetime of home cooked meals to feed you."

 

"Is it cool if we hole up here for a few days?" Sam asks. 

 

"Clean up after yourselves and fix that goddamn hole in the roof," she answers. "And who's this guy?"

 

He extends his hand. He has dark hair and kind eyes. He looks serious, though. A little severe. "Castiel Novak," he introduces. "A friend of theirs."

 

"Castiel is in the process of freeing Dean," Sam answers. 

 

Ellen looks at Castiel and then at Sam and then at Dean. She sees it then- the way he holds his shoulders a little inward, the way his head tilts down, that something deferential in his voice. She sees a whole lot all at once. 

 

"Ya'll," she says, "look like you could use a drink."

 

Castiel smiles. "It's been an interesting past couple days."


	37. Chapter 37

Dean doesn’t really know what to make of the house that Sam grew up in.

It’s a big house- bigger than Castiel’s apartment. It has an upstairs and a downstairs, it has bathrooms and bedrooms and a sprawling kitchen that leads seamlessly into a warm living room. Floral wallpaper. Pictures on the wall.

Sam looks different in the photographs. He looks younger, he looks smaller. He smiles happily and blushes and has food on his face and goes all over the place. The pictures are strange, more than anything. They’re a reminder of what Sam’s had, how lucky he’s been. What Dean didn’t have.

“I’d really like to take a shower,” Dean announces. “Is there any way I could use a bathroom for a little while?”

Ellen nods and points him upstairs. “There’ll be towels in the closet for you. Should have dinner on the table by the time you get out.”

Ellen has been so refreshing. She doesn’t treat Dean like a baby or like he’s made of glass. She asks honest questions, like ‘so when were you freed?’ and ‘did you remember Sam at all?’ and ‘I don’t suppose anyone has taught you how to hold your liquor yet’. She treats Dean like a person, and even if she’s a little sharp, she’s honest. It makes Dean glad that she was Sam’s mother, for a lot of reasons.

Dean doesn’t know how to think about Sam anymore.

The water is cool on his scalp and on his back. It feels almost like rain, if a little harder. Dean’s always liked the rain- slaves can’t work fields in the rain and it washes away all the dirt. Better than a bath because there’s no shared bathwater.

He tries to scrub the past few days out of his skin and then he keeps scrubbing and scraping and washing and working at his body. He aches against every scar he finds on his scalp and his neck. He tries to tear them away from himself. Washes his feet over and over, hoping the soap will tear away the messy scars from broken bones and broken glass and the neat scars from suture and surgery.

He hates himself, suddenly. He hates his wrecked body, sore and ruined from the fields. He hates his mottled skin, streaked from the sun and scarred from the whip. He hates his brain that won’t let him speak when he wants to and makes him blind with agony around crowds.

He hates that he can’t be fucking normal. He was supposed to be fucking normal and he just can’t do it.

He just can’t do it.

Dean stays in the shower a long, long time, and then he hears the bathroom door open and feels the gust of the shower curtain parting slowly.

Castiel steps in slowly and silently. He looks at Dean’s eyes, nowhere else, as he slowly takes away the soap and the washcloth and holds Dean’s hands.

His shirt begins to stick to his chest under the spray, which has turned icy in the hours he’s probably spent in there. Castiel’s hands and gentle and strong where he holds Dean’s. His expression is serious but kind.

“Dean,” he murmurs. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”  
Dean can only just stand there, though.

“Dean,” Castiel continues.

“Just a little while longer,” Dean says. “Please, let me stay in the rain just a little while longer.”

Castiel look at him and then nods.

He never says anything about the scars. He doesn’t talk about the burns or the lash-marks or the places where Dean doesn’t seem to have feeling anymore, just a shiny patch of skin without sensation. He looks at them when he thinks Dean can’t notice him, but he doesn’t ask and Dean doesn’t feel like he needs to tell.

Sam’s going to ask though, and Dean doesn’t think he can tell him.

It was different when he was just his friend. Now he’s his brother and with that...with that Dean can’t tell him about the hundred times he nearly got caught in the thresher himself or the shape of the hammer they liked to use to break his bones or the way thousand and thousands of dirty nutshells made his hands feel. He can’t.

Castiel climbs out of the shower, and Dean does too, a few minutes later.

There’s plate covered in foil on the nightstand in the room he’ll be staying in.

Dinner, waiting for him.

 


	38. Chapter 38

Castiel climbs into bed with him at about three in the morning. His chest and hands are cool against Dean’s skin. His body is firm and taught where it wraps over him, where it touches him.

His kisses are cool against the scratches and tears from his panic attack in the shower.

Dean kisses him back a little slower and a lot sleepier.

Usually he sleeps in a shirt or at the very least he has sex with Castiel in a shirt. He doesn’t like to show the scars. That’s part of who he was when he was a slave and now he’s becoming someone else. Sometimes being a slave bleeds back through, but Dean wishes more than anything that when he was pulled out of that hell that he got to have a new body, too.

“I think,” Dean murmurs between the kisses, “I’d like to get some tattoos.”

Castiel smiles and kisses a little deeper. “Let’s start poking around for a place to get them done, then.” The interaction is sleepy and slurred but like most things with Castiel, it feels safe. Dean thinks that might be his favorite part of Castiel- the way he makes him feel completely safe.

Castiel’s hand settles right over his shoulder, warm and steady and Dean leans into the touch as he lets his fingers flirt along the edge of Castiel’s boxers. Castiel’s skin is puckered under the tight elastic waistband. It feels knobbly and knotty, like Dean’s scars. It’s the only time Castiel’s skin isn’t truly smooth.

Dean thinks about Castiel in that way sometimes- he thinks about him as he would have thought of Adam. He thinks about how different Castiel’s body would feel with long weeks of starvation pressing his ribs and he thinks about how his hands would feel if he’d spent his days welding or smelting instead of doing whatever inexplicable thing it is he does with numbers.

Dean can’t stop thinking about Sam with a life of slavery and every time it’s a relief to remember that his frie- his little brother didn’t have to live that life.

He lets his fingers drift under Castiel’s boxers, lower and lower along his hips, deeper towards his groin. He reaches that dense region of pubic hair, curly and thick in his fingers. Clean and unmatted, no errant wiggle of lice. Castiel is already half-hard and Dean enjoys running his hand up and down his cock. He loves the way it makes him squirm and gasp like he does now. Dean loved touching Adam and he loves touching Castiel. He loves making him feel good. He loves the purity of their actions. This is what love is, under their covers deep at night and safe.

Castiel gasps as his cock becomes fully hard and he kisses Dean again. “So good,” he moans. “So good.” Dean keeps jacking Castiel’s dick until he comes, warm and wet into Dean’s hand.

Castiel pants like a drowning man after he comes, and then he kisses Dean like he’s the surface, like he’s air, like he’s oxygen, like he’s the only thing keeping him afloat.

“So scared,” he says.

He falls asleep curled up with Dean and Dean spends the rest of the night trying to sleep.

* * *

 

Ellen sits at the kitchen table, opposite of Dean. Cup of coffee, toast, newspaper. A few photographs.

Dean’s food is untouched. To really eat it, he’ll have to put down the photograph and he can’t do that. He can’t put this picture down because he lost this once before and he can’t lose it again.

“Mary and John,” Ellen introduces. “They hadn’t been trying for a baby but it didn’t mean they loved you any less. Hell, Mary thought you hung the damn stars. Whenever I came to see ya’ll, she’d always have something brilliant you’d done to show me or some story to tell me. And John, he loved you in his way, too. He was gruff but...he did. He loved both of you.”

There’s a kid in the photograph. Crooked teeth with gaps between them, a bad haircut, freckles, green eyes.

“And you,” Ellen says. “The last time I’d seen you, you looked about like that. You don’t look too different, though. Not really. You smile the same way when someone coaxes it out of you.”

Dean finds himself smiling a little at that. “Long time ago,” he says. “Whole damn lifetime.”

“We didn’t know,” she answers. “We thought we’d buried you. Hell, I can even show you the grave, if you’d like.”

Dean shakes his head. “I feel enough like a ghost as it is,” he replies. “I don’t need to see no headstone.”

“Any headstone,” Castiel corrects, lurching into the kitchen. His hair is a mess, his posture is slumped. He yawns hugely, grandly, and pours himself a cup of coffee. Shuffles back out of the room.

Ellen raises an eyebrow.

“He freed me,” Dean says. “Or at least, he’s working on it. He’s...he’s never been anything but right to me, even when he was in every position to be bad to me.Legally, he’s still in every position to be wrong to me, but he isn’t. He’s good.”

“If he ever isn’t,” Ellen says, “I’ll kick his ass. I’m not too sure about Sam, but I certainly will.”

“You mean my brother will,” Dean says softly.

Ellen nods and gets up to pour herself a glass of orange juice. “We weren’t sure if we should call him that,” she says.

“He is, though, isn’t he?” Dean asks.

Ellen sets the juice down on the table, one more part of a breakfast she probably won’t eat. “I know we’re working from old pictures and my word, but Dean. you look- you look just like your mother. Got her eyes and coloration and when  you look at Sam and you look at your fella from the city, it’s like having her back in the room. No one knew your family quite as well as I had the priviledge to, and if you’re not, well shit son, you might as well be family at this point.”

Dean can’t stop looking at the family picture in his hands. Can’t eat for not letting go.

When Sam lopes into the kitchen a few minutes later, Dean doesn’t know what to do. He hugs him and he cries again- the third time in as many days.

There’s still so much to do. There are tests to take a whole hell of a court case that he’s about to have to go through, but for the first time in his life, for the first time since he could remember, he’s not going to have to do it alone.

Dean’s never going to have to be alone again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, wow! So this has become my most commented, viewed, and kudo'd piece on AO3, and I just wanted to thank you guys real quick! I might add more to this verse a bit down the line, but for now this is where the story ends while I get adjusted to my school year and start working on my classes. It makes me so happy to know that you've enjoyed this story and I hope I can revisit this verse when I've wrapped up a couple of my other projects.


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